


Only Unity Prevails

by singingviolets



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/F, F/M, Incest Is Bad!, M/M, More Characters to Follow, More pairings to follow, POV Multiple, Sibling Bonding, Time Travel Fix-It, White Walkers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-05-29 11:02:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 29,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15071825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singingviolets/pseuds/singingviolets
Summary: Killed at the Red Wedding, Robb Stark is transported back in time to five years before his death. How will he and his siblings reshape the realm to prepare Westeros for the coming winter? (More characters + relationships to be added!)





	1. Robb I

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first well-thought-out, long fanfic in several years, and my first long ASOIAF fic in general (I’ve done small ficlets, but no long-running AUs). It will contain a myriad of POV characters -- many of which have yet to be listed (mostly focusing on Starks and Lannisters, though) -- and it will cover the 2nd Long Night.

**ROBB I:**

_Jaime Lannister sends his regards_. A soft voice, familiar in its emotionless chill. A searing pain in his stomach. Mother screaming and crying, tears mixing with blood as a knife sliced her throat. Black dots everywhere, vision blurring, a squish as he fell to the floor amongst the remains of his kinsmen.

Red, wet, metal, salt --

“Robb! Robb!” beckoned a childlike voice above him, shaking his shoulders. It was a voice he never thought he’d hear again. He snapped his eyes open.

“Arya? Is that really you?” He blinked. He was in his bed, in his room, back at Winterfell. Warm bear pelt covers wrapped him and a sword, sheathed in brown leather, hung on the wall across from him. The cool air was filled with the scent of pine and coal and dirt and freshly baked kidney pies and _snow_. He could hear the noise of castle workers working on repairs outside and the commanding tone of Ser Rodrick, training his men-in-arms out in the courtyard that faced his window. Most of all, the mischievous little tomboy who he thought he’d lost forever was sitting right next to him, the rebellious glint in her dark grey eyes unmistakeably Arya-esque.

“Robb? Are you alright?” she asked in confusion. It was only then that Robb noticed the wetness running down his cheeks. He frantically wiped the tears away with his hands, but more kept coming, giving way to heaving sobs.

 _I must be in heaven_.

“I’m going to get Mother,” his little sister –- or whatever she was –- decided, scampering off the bed, now more alarmed than perplexed. _Ah, Mother. That’s right. She died too. She warned me…she warned me about Theon, about his siblings, about Walder Frey_. She was right, and his mistakes killed her in the end.

“What’s wrong with Robb?” peeped another voice at the door, a small face peering in his room. _Bran_. Bran and Rickon, they had also died. How they begged him not to leave, not to call the banners and go south, not to abandon the castle and leave them alone, without any older family to love and guide and support them. Theon Greyjoy had done the deed, but it was Robb’s fault that his little brothers were dead.

“Let’s go get Mother, Bran. Race you?” Arya commanded, both siblings racing away. _Bran has his legs_ . It was truly heaven, then, for no miracle could cure his little brother’s paralysis in the world of the living. He looked around his room once more, kicking his warm pelt around with his legs. But the furs were longer than he remembered. Or was it… _oh_. He jumped up and gazed in front of his mirror.

He was shorter, skinnier, far lankier than he remembered. His cheeks were rounder; his beard not yet grown in the slightest – nor any hair outside his head, at that. His hair was lighter and shorter, the curls more tightly knit. His nose was smooth, as it hadn’t yet been broken in a drunken brawl with Theon and the Karstark brothers. Robb pegged himself at roughly eleven years old. Which, come to think of it, made sense. Of course heaven was during the height of summer, while he lived in ignorant bliss of everything that was soon going to hell.

“Robb, Mother’s not feeling well, what with the baby, so she sent me. What’s – _oh! What’s wrong?_ ”

 _Sansa. She was supposed to live._ It had been yet another act of short-sightedness to leave his sisters in King’s Landing, imprisoned in a cage of monsters. He had the Kingslayer -- he had the ultimate key to saving them -- but he resolved to keep him. _But at what cost?_ Guilt consumed him as he took in the image of his sweet, gentle sister who he abandoned, who was forced to marry that odious _imp_. And that she was already dead, before he...what kind of horrors had the Lannisters put her through? She hadn't even been married long enough to birth a child -- did they kill her before she had the chance? Or had -- had she been driven to kill herself?

“Robb, your face looks like a ghost from one of Old Nan’s stories, please lie down -- can you hear me? Robb?”

“What did they do to you? What did they do to Arya?” he croaked.

“Who are 'they'? What are you talking about?” His sister was earnestly scanning his face, trying to understand him. Her face was full of worry, but her eyes were bright and held no sign of deep sorrow.

“What was Joffrey like?” He asked carefully. Sansa’s face suddenly flushed, her eyes beaming.

“He’s a _prince._ He’s handsome and charming and gallant and brave, and Father says -- oh! Father says I might one day be his _queen_ ,” she gushed, her smile growing as her mind floated further and further into her daydreaming. “And he’ll win a tourney and crown me his Queen of Love and Beauty, and I’ll have two baby boys and two baby girls like Mother, and -- Robb, are you quite sure you’re alright? Should I get Maester  Luwin?” She cried out, for Robb had a terrible thought and his knees had given way, sending him headfirst onto the ground.

_Joffrey wouldn't exist in heaven. Sansa would never see him. What if -- what if --_

A sinking feeling took hold in his gut and threatened to spread. But he had to make sure. He thought of the one person, the single person he was sure was still alive.

“No,” he gasped, “no, not yet,” he protested, shaking as Sansa helped him up and onto his bed. “Tell me Sansa, which are the most powerful Northern vassals, and who are their current lords?”

At this, his sister’s demeanor completely changed, as if she was in lessons and Mother or Father or Maester Luwin were testing her. She immediately sat up straighter -- if that were even possible -- and clasped her hands together in front of her stomach.

“Well, there are the Karstarks of Karhold, who were our kin once, and they are led by Lord Rickard. There are the Manderlys of White Harbor, who are led by Lord Wyman Manderly. Oh, and the Boltons, who are nearby, and led by Lord Roose Bolton.”

 _Lord Roose Bolton._ The sinking feeling only grew.

“Thank you Sansa, I had a bad dream and it has shaken me. I will rest awhile and come down for the midday meal,” he told her with an air of finality that led her to nod, slide off his bed, and step daintily out the door -- not without doing a proper curtsy as she gently shut the door.

Once she was gone, Robb let out a long sigh. He positively knew now that he was in no heaven at all -- not if the likes of Joffrey and Roose Bolton roamed the earth in prosperity. But where was he, then? Had he truly...gone back in time? How was that even possible -- had the Old Gods done it, or the Faith? No, the gods wouldn't waste their powers on the likes of _him_ \-- a boy of sixteen, a reckless leader, a failure to his family. But then what was the alternative? Was this hell instead? No, the rest of his family wouldn't be there. His thoughts wandered, growing no less confused, as he drifted off once more to sleep...

_You, Stark boy._

This voice was nothing like Robb had ever heard before. The voices he knew were young voices -- the voices of his siblings, his soldiers, his wife. He supposed the most ancient voice he had ever known was that of Old Nan, her soft croak always weaving tales of magic and horror and winter. But this voice made Old Nan seem like a young child. It was a weary voice of many in one, children and youth and elderly, imbued with thousands of layers of history. And it was most definitely _not human._

_You’re right; we are not human. How do you think you were sent back? You think humans are the gods of this earth?_

The voice let out a strange hiccup, which may have been its bizarre form of laughter. Now some of Robb’s questions were answered. He really had been sent back in time, likely by the Old Gods who roamed the weirwood trees that he had always been terrified of as a young child, their dark red tears and silvery grey-white bark always invoking the image of dead bodies whose blood poured for eternity. But one unsettling thought remained: why? Why him?

 _You’re a Stark. It is your destiny to hold the North, to keep it from those who seek to ravage it. Your generation failed in another world, but it must not be so this time. Learn fast, for this chance shall be your last_.

It let out another strange hiccup laugh, and it was gone. That had been enough, though, for the sinking feeling in his gut was quickly fading. He had been given a second chance -- a second chance to keep the North, to make alliances, to save and protect his family. He would not let Father be killed or his sisters imprisoned. He would not let Theon Greyjoy out of his sight to go to Winterfell and hang his brothers, and he would never let Walder Frey slaughter his mother.

Three years. He had three years before his fourteenth nameday and the start of his family’s demise.

He jolted upright, hopping out of bed and quickly getting dressed. It was time to save his family.


	2. Robb II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb talks to Theon Greyjoy but doesn't find what he expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Embroidery is not a dumb skill at all. Unfortunately, Robb disagrees. For now. 
> 
> Also, there will be no character bashing. I try my utmost to respect the characters I write about.

**ROBB II:**

The clamor of clashing swords -- dulled, blunt blades of course -- echoed across the courtyard. Robb could hear the booming voice of Ser Rodrick shouting commands to the two fighters in the center. One of them was a man in Jory Cassel’s service, short and well-built. The other one, however, a young boy, was…

“Jon! Get him Jon!” he cheered. His dark-haired brother’s face scrunched up in concentration, his cheeks, normally very pale, were red with exertion and maybe a smidgeon of embarrassment. Now that Robb knew he was in fact _not_ in heaven and the people around him were _not_ dead, seeing Jon gave him only joy.

“Eh, Stark, I’ll wager Snow will last two minutes more,” retorted a confident voice to his left, no less familiar to him than that of his blood family. He whirled around.

“Th-theon,” he stuttered. Theon Greyjoy, traitor to the North. Here he was, a boy of fifteen, with the same black hair, cocky expression, and crooked smile that Robb remembered from his childhood. His whole life, he had imagined there was a sincere brotherly love and regard underneath Theon’s arrogant bravado, but whatever friendly camaraderie he had conjured must have been all in his head.

 _Why, Theon? What did my little brothers ever do?_ In truth, that was what boggled Robb the most. How could someone fake friendship for so many years, from such an early age? How could someone kill two defenseless little boys -- one a cripple, one just a babe -- and not feel any remorse? It was baffling to imagine that Theon had been just pretending to like the Starks, biding his time and waiting for a chance to betray him, yet Robb could see no other possible way this monster could have had the callousness to kill his brothers.

“Alright, maybe three minutes. Do we have a wager?” Theon added, emitting a sharp chuckle. _I should just kill him first_ , he thought, _before he can hurt us_ . No. His honor would not permit him to do that. His honor -- the main legacy of his father -- needed to survive. Regardless of his intentions, the Theon beside him was so far innocent of any such crime. _Fine. Two can play at that game_ . He would be a pretender just as much as the boy beside him, but at the same time, Robb decided to watch Theon closely. _They say, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Theon Greyjoy is both, so I should keep him attached to the hip_.

“Yes,” Robb responded carefully. “If Jon holds out, you’ll give Jon an archery lesson yourself,” he added, looking Theon right in the eye. The other boy raised both his eyebrows, not having expected such a request. _He probably didn’t expect me to ask for someone else’s benefit_.

“Very well,” Theon nodded, “and if he doesn’t, you will pay for our trip to Wintertown tonight!” He let out a laugh that nearly made Robb’s ears bleed and sent him an exaggerated wink. The two of them turned back to watching the fight. It wasn’t going in Jon’s favor, as he was still only eleven years old, but then again, neither Robb nor Theon had expected him to end up winning. The two fighters exchanged blows, their faces turning redder and redder as sweat poured into their minimal armor. It was not long before the man ended up nicking Jon just below the knee, a costly mistake for the boy that made quick work of the fight. The onlookers all clapped, yet none of them -- not even Ser Rodrick who was shouting “A good fight! Good lad, good lad!” over and over again -- were as loud and ostentatious as Theon Greyjoy.

“So when are we leaving for Wintertown, eh?” he asked proudly, gripping a defeated Robb by the shoulder.

“After the midday meal,” Robb grunted. He could feel his patience with Theon giving way and silently prayed that the older boy would leave soon. Thankfully, the subject in question in fact did saunter away, approaching Jon.

“Snow! You’ll get your archery lesson another day. Tonight is for Wintertown,” he grinned, walking away with another one of his laughs that cut like a knife. At that, Jon snorted, rolling his eyes before Theon was out of sight.

“You’re not _really_ going to Wintertown, right Robb?” Jon asked, his forehead lines -- already there at age eleven, the solemn chap -- creasing on his ruddy, childlike face. Robb wanted to laugh, laugh at the image of his brother in his childhood, laugh at the miraculous series of events that allowed him to see his closest sibling one last time. But he wouldn’t dare risk laughing at the Old Gods in their own territory, so he satisfied himself with a grin.

“I don’t know yet. Want to come?” Robb offered, merely out of politeness and friendship, as he already knew the answer. Had he not been afraid of hurting his brother, he would have chortled until he cried upon seeing Jon’s look of horror. “Oh, come now, we’ll have a good time!”

“No, I rather think not. Robb, you know how I feel about _that stuff_ ,” Jon replied, lowering the volume of his voice significantly. A proper brother would have taken to teasing Jon further, asking him loudly what he meant by _that stuff_ , but as Robb was still feeling somewhat remorseful, he decided to be a kind brother instead.

“I wasn’t planning on drinking and whoring, if that’s what you meant. That’s Theon’s job,” he refuted. As he thought about tonight’s journey, though, an idea was brewing in his head. He was suddenly anticipating tonight’s trip a lot more. “But if you plan to avoid naked women and ale completely, I don’t recommend it.” This time, he couldn’t help letting out a chuckle at Jon’s scandalized expression and flaming cheeks. “Come, Maester Luwin should be waiting.”

* * *

 

“Maester Luwin informed me you were not feeling well this morning,” his father asked him, his forehead lines creasing so like Jon’s often did. Robb had spent several minutes taking deep breaths, trying to prepare himself for the sight of Father and Mother, but nothing could stop his eyes from growing watery upon seeing his father _alive_ and his mother positively _radiant,_ heavily pregnant with what would be little Rickon.

“Er -- yes Father, I had a frightening dream last night,” at those words, Theon let out a little chuckle. Annoyed, Robb just looked at him right in the eye with a solemn face that could rival those of his father and brother. It did the trick, as Theon kept his mouth shut for the rest of supper. _Thank the gods, tonight’s trip will be enough Theon for a whole week anyway_.

“What was the dream about?” Father asked thoughtfully.

“War,” Robb replied, “war, blood, winter,” he ended, maintaining the serious expression. His father’s eyes flashed at that, clearly not expecting such an answer from a boy. _Ah, but I’m not a boy, Father. I’m a dead man walking._ For several moments, the table was silent, until Sansa raised some inane question on embroidery, of all things, letting Robb tune out the conversation and wink conspiratorially at his other sister.

Soon enough, the evening meal came to an end -- his mother retired immediately to bed, his younger siblings driven to their rooms by Jon. Theon elbowed him with a wink, to which he rolled his eyes and made a motion to wait.

“Father,” he approached quietly, “where can I find books about the Greyjoys?” he asked. His father looked puzzled for a second time this evening. “I just want to understand Theon better,” Robb added. _That’s the truth. That’s exactly the truth, though there’s a double meaning_.

“I’ll have Maester Luwin draw you up some tomorrow morning,” his father replied with a nod, convinced of his son’s intentions.

“Thank you, Father,” Robb added, leaving the hall to find Theon for their trip.

Wintertown in the evening was just as Robb had remembered it -- fires in all the hearths, the smell of potato stew and kidney pies and coal mixing with the chilly air. It didn’t take long for Theon to find a tavern that agreed with him, and to Robb’s relief, it did not double as a house of ill repute. It would make his task easier if he had Theon alone, not distracted by anything but ale.

To his chagrin, though, Theon made sure to pour him a generous mug. _It seems like I’m not the only one trying to get my companion into his cups_ . Likely the older boy thought it would be a great source of amusement -- greater, even, than a woman warming his bed. _I need to pretend_ , Robb thought, _else I’ll leave here drunk myself._

“What was your home like?” he inquired as he made a big show of taking a gulp of ale. _Might as well dive right in._ Theon looked at him strangely, but not without warmth.

“You’ve never asked me before,” he replied in a smaller voice that had no trace of his usual arrogance. “Why do you want to know?” Theon added, more suspiciously.

“You’re supposed to be my friend,” Robb implored. _This is still true. This was always true._ “You know my family, but I know nothing about yours,” he explained, forcing some more liquid down his throat for good measure.

The older boy was still perplexed, but that seemed to be enough explanation for him. “Well, as you know, our sigil is the kraken. You and your Faith may not acknowledge the Drowned God, but he’s real, and so are krakens. I know, because my uncle and my brother Rodrik caught one once and brought it to our home in Pyke. Have I told you the story?” Robb shook his head. What followed was a series of tales of sea monsters and battles, raids and swimming races, quests and ships. The whole narrative was so fantastical, it may as well have emerged from one of Sansa’s storybooks, only about the Iron Islands instead of the South.

It was the first time Robb had really glimpsed into Theon Greyjoy’s soul, but instead of a murderous monster, he just got a starry-eyed boy.


	3. Robb III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb and Ned squirm their way out of a dangerous offer. Rickon is born as Robb babysits Bran and Arya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: King's Landing!

**ROBB III:**

“What is the matter, Father? You’ve been in a dark mood all day,” Robb asked one afternoon. He had broken his fast with his father and his two youngest siblings that morning, as Jon was up early sparring, Sansa was with her embroidery friends, and Mother was still lying in bed. It had been a normal meal up until Father had received a raven and his face turned serious -- more so than usual, that is. Even Bran’s laughs and Arya’s japes couldn't bring a smile to the sullen visage of Lord Stark.

“A raven from Robert,” his father sighed. “He wants me to betroth Sansa to his eldest.”

_ His eldest...Joffrey.  _ A chill went down Robb’s spine as he remembered the sadistic, sniveling excuse of a human.  _ So that’s how Sansa was promised to him. This is my chance. Sansa cannot be sent to that venomous worm!  _ His mind was racing, trying to think of the best possible excuses to avoid the match.

“But he’s the Crown Prince! Surely he has better prospects than a girl from the North,” Robb sputtered, “and you know, it’s best if they meet before anything definite goes through, just in case they don’t like each other. I mean, who’s to say the Crown Prince won't like Arya better?” He realized he was grasping at straws towards the end, his words getting more jumbled and stuttery. His father simply studied him with a blank expression that slowly dawned into one of understanding.

“Me too, Robb,” he nodded, “I don't want Sansa to go south. She may enjoy her stories and her knights here, in the North. She’s just a little girl, full of fancies.” Robb tried to recall how old his sister was, exactly. He was halfway between eleven and twelve, so that put Sansa at eight years old, nearly nine.  _ Bran and I had long seen heads roll by that age _ .

“Father, she is not so little. She’s got to stop living in her fantasies, and soon,” he implored, looking his father in the eye with a matching somber expression to make sure he comprehended the importance of this notion.  _ All this seriousness is turning me into Jon.  _ “But it’s true -- even I have not been betrothed yet, so you could make the argument that she is still young, and that a Northern husband would work best for her temperament,” he suggested, the last part turning into more of a question than a confident assertion. Regardless, Father was nodding.  _ That had to count for something, right? _

“If I refuse Robert, he’ll take it as a slight upon his honor,” Father sighed again, “I suppose I must go through with it.”

For a moment Robb felt anger boiling in his gut. He knew that had it been his betrothal offer, Father would have asked to at least get to know his potential partner -- why should his sister be any different? He couldn't let his father be so...so complacent with his sister’s matters! Nevertheless, he took a deep breath, bowed his head, and forced all semblance of annoyance and hostility out of his tone.

“Father,” he began carefully, quietly, “is a slight against the honor of the King more important than the wellbeing of your children?” 

Ned Stark blinked and gathered his thoughts. The son before him was nearly twelve years old, yes, but spoke like a man more than a boy. He stared at Robb for a long moment.  _ He’s acknowledging me _ , Robb thought with just a little glee.  _ Maybe he’ll let me take part in other important decisions, too.  _ After studying Robb for several minutes, Lord Stark finally spoke again.

“I cannot write to the King without an alternative. What do you propose?”  _ Yes!  _ Robb tried not to let his joy show too much on his face.  _ Good, Joffrey won't ever come near our family _ . He pondered, however, on his father’s question for a moment.  _ The other two royal bastards weren't quite so bad. _

“Perhaps you offer something for one of his other children? He has another son and a daughter,” Robb suggested.

“What, you mean to offer yourself to the daughter?” his father countered.

_ A betrothal. Frey… _

“No!” Robb shouted. His face paled, but it turned whiter still as he realized how rudely he replied. But he would never, ever enter a marriage pact so thoughtlessly again. He had betrayed enough people by breaking his word once.  _ I killed them all. I was at fault for the massacre. It was my fault. Mine, mine... _

_ “Robb!”  _ a voice boomed around him. Father.  _ That’s right. Father is alive. This is my second chance. No betrothals. No Freys. No betrothals. No Joffrey. No Jeyne. _

“I’m sorry for raising my voice, Father,” he murmured with sincere remorse. “I will not betroth myself to someone I’ve never met.” His father looked at him again with an expression more perplexed than angry.  _ Get a hold of yourself,  _ Robb thought,  _ get a grip. I cannot start acting strangely again. Next time I won't be so lucky. _

“If not, what else do you suggest?” implored Father.

“We could foster his younger son,” Robb replied as calmly as he could. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that this solution would solve more problems than it would create. “He could befriend Bran. Gods know he could befriend Arya,” he added. This way, Joffrey would never come near his siblings, but despite that, they would have some semblance of alliance with the Lannisters -- the Baratheons, officially. And when the war against that foul family would inevitably start, it would be the Starks holding a Lannister child hostage instead of vice versa.

To Robb’s utter relief, his father seemed to be agreeing to his idea. “That should suffice for Robert. But Sansa really should be betrothed soon, to someone from the North, in case Robert should insist,” Father replied.

“Betrothed, no that’s too soon! But looking into prospects--” Robb began, but stopped short.

_ That’s it. _

_ Keep your enemies closer… _

“Father, what about Domeric Bolton?” he remarked.  _ Genius, Robb, you’re a genius!  _ With a marriage pact, the Bolton heir would be taken care of by the Starks and live a fulfilling life. With the heir to the Dreadfort so tied to the Starks, Roose Bolton would never dare revolt.

“Roose’s son? That’s--” his father began, but Robb would never find out what he was about to say, because suddenly the door to Father’s study opened with a bang. “Arya, what have I told you about--”

“Mother says come quick,” panted his little sister, “the baby’s coming!”

At that, his father shot up from his seat, anxiously walking out the door. Remembering his son’s presence, he turned around.

“Robb, take care of your younger siblings,” he muttered, “Maester Luwin is busy with your mother,” he added, dashing out of the room without another word. The two remaining siblings looked at each other in anticipation, but then glanced outside to see a heavy downpour. It was warm enough for rain, not snow, which meant that unfortunately, playing outside would not be an option. Arya sighed.

“Come on, sister,” Robb reassured her, ruffling her hair. “Let’s go find everyone else,” he suggested. 

“Sansa’s with Mother,” she told him, “because she wants to hold the new baby first. I don’t know where the others are,” she added.

“Race you to find our brothers?” Robb suggested with a grin. She laughed and immediately scampered off. They soon predictably found Bran in the library, but Jon wasn’t to be found. Their youngest sibling -- for now -- mentioned seeing his dark-haired brother ride off with Theon sometime early in the morning.

“I don’t know where they went, but they were both carrying bows,” his little brother supplied, flipping the pages of his book.  _ Probably Theon is giving him an archery lesson.  _ Ever since that night in Wintertown, Robb had been asking about Theon’s home more. It made quite a difference -- Theon’s cocky attitude was rapidly deflating, and the boy was much subdued. Of course, Robb still mistrusted that his new outlook was born out of brotherly affection, but either way, this kinder, less abrasive Theon was markedly an improvement upon the arrogant ass he was before.

Bran suddenly let out a little gasp, stirring Robb from his thoughts about the Ironborn heir. His little brother tugged on the sleeve of his arm in excitement.

“Robb! Robb! Let’s go to the kitchens; I have an idea!” the little boy exclaimed. To his right side, Arya groaned, not wanting to be pulled into one of Bran’s schemes again. “I promise you’ll really like this one!” Chuckling, Robb decided to indulge his little brother and turned to his sister, who was busy rolling her eyes. 

“Why don’t we go, Arya? Let’s see what your brother has thought up,” he pleaded on Bran’s behalf. “Besides, it’s not like we have much else to do,” he added.

“Fine, but if it’s boring, I’m grabbing all the cranberry tarts and leaving,” she relented, sighing.  _ Too bad she’s the only one of us who likes those sour berries _ , Robb thought with a smile as he led his siblings down to the kitchen, Bran jumping up and down in excitement. To Robb’s relief, the kitchens were nearly empty, the only staff being a kindly maid who noticed his younger brother’s excitement and let out a laugh, leaving the little lord to his devices. As soon as the three siblings had walked in, Bran had immediately run off, darting back and forth as he gathered a load of supplies that nearly threatened to fall out of his little arms. Robb had grabbed a couple of items from his brother -- a bottle of vinegar and a small pot -- as he wondered whether his little brother’s schemes could cause a disaster. So far, nothing seemed too deadly.

“Ready!” Bran yelled, bringing over a large spoon and a sack of a white powder that resembled powder on first glance. “Alright, first we need to pour the vinegar into the pot to keep everything neat,” he began, uncapping the bottle to reveal the strong-smelling liquid that made Arya scrunch her nose. “And now -- get ready -- I’m going to put in some of this stuff,” he gestured to the white powder, “and -- boom!”

“Boom?” asked Arya, now more curious than disdainful. Bran nodded with a grin, which made Arya’s eyes go wide. “Let me pour it!” she yelled in excitement. Her little brother, happy that his sister was finally going to join in his games, was all too happy to oblige. But Robb was steadily growing more and more nervous as Arya dumped a handful of white powder into the pot.

_ Boom _ ! Bran was right -- the explosion created by the mixture was unprecedented. His two younger siblings laughed happily as the resulting white froth bubbled over the pot and spilled on the floor, going in all sorts of directions. Eventually, the hissing sound of the froth died down, and all that was left was a sticky mess. 

“Alright,” Robb cleared his throat, trying to sound authoritative, “time for cleaning up. You don’t want the staff to tell Mother and Father, do you?” His little siblings groaned but complied, each the wet rags that Robb handed to them. “Now Bran,” he added, “do you have any other tricks? Something that won’t cause a huge mess, please.”

His little brother’s eyes widened in excitement. “So many!” he exclaimed. And so the siblings passed the time until the birth of their youngest brother, Rickon.  


	4. Jaime I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slightly unusual day in King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word on pairings -- yes, they will happen, especially for our main Stark characters:  
> \- No incest in this fic. No cousins, no aunts, no blood relations!   
> \- No weird age differences! My favorite ship is Sansa/Willas, but their canon ages are too different for it to work here for my comfort.  
> \- It's not going to be very romantic. The closest bonds here are going to be bonds of family and friendship, not romance. That being said, I’m going to keep my kiddos happy -- think Ned/Cat, not Rhaegar/Lyanna for most of the endgame pairings.
> 
> That’s all -- enjoy the first non-Robb chapter!

**JAIME I:**

There was something important afoot: the King was reading his letters.

Today’s midday meal began as usual -- the oaf shoving food and drink into his mouth with abandon while making more noise gulping and burping than the rest of the table combined (including his young children), Cersei and Myrcella taking small bites, Joffrey and his mother sending scathing looks at everyone, Tommen chewing heartily but quietly at the end of the table. A few minutes into the meal, the letters that had arrived by raven that day were brought in. But while Robert usually shuffled the letters around with his meaty paw, grunting sending them away with barely a glance, today he noticed one that he liked and brought it back to his  _ study _ .

_ Not even his brother have such an honor _ , Jaime thought. There could only be two men in the entire world whose letters Robert would pay any attention to. One of them was Jon Arryn, a tiresome old codger whose high pressure role as Hand of the King had only exaggerated those traits. But he was tolerable, at least compared to the other man Robert seemed to care about a little: the  _ honorable _ Ned Stark. And seeing as the Hand was still in the city, that raven could only have come from the cold, dreary, intensely hypocritical Warden of the North himself.

_ Cersei would know _ , he thought, dreaming of sneaking away to her chambers, an ache in his breeches forming. But no, he was delegated the  _ extremely vital  _ task of caring for her vile pig of a husband, the very thought of whom immediately destroyed any ache in his lower regions. Any hope of restoring it was momentarily dashed as a crying blond boy emerged from the King’s chambers. _ Joffrey.  _ No, the boy could not be his nephew -- Joffrey never cried in front of anyone, much less in public. The boy’s hands left his face and Jaime immediately pegged him as his much-younger cousin, Tyrek, unlucky page to the great oaf himself.

“Cousin Jaime,” the boy pleaded softly, “cousin Jaime, Lancel!” he added, bursting into tears again. Jaime walked closer to the door -- indeed, there was shouting. And soon enough, he heard his own name being called by the booming Baratheon.

“Lannister! Come in here!’ yelled the King. Sighing, Jaime shot his young cousin one last look as he calmly entered the King’s solar. Thankfully, no naked women were present and no swords were drawn -- not yet -- but the heaving and panting of both figures told Jaime it was really about time, and unfortunately, weapons were closer in reach than whores. “Discipline your kin,” spat the oaf, his red face stinking of ale, “or you’ll see my discipline not leave him whole.”

Jaime nodded, not trusting himself to stay calm enough if he spoke. Wordlessly, he grabbed his cousin and dragged him out of the room like a limp doll.

Once the door was firmly shut behind them, Jaime began to inspect damages. The boy before him was not badly hurt -- he was bleeding from the temple, likely from something Robert threw at him, but otherwise fine -- though Jaime suspected his pride had been hurt quite a bit.  _ Good. Gods know Lancel is an arrogant brat. His pride could take quite a bit of hurt. _

But not this way. Not from this man. Shaking his head, he resolved to ask father to talk to his uncles about actually raising their children.  _ Let them deal with their mess that they brought into the world. Why should I have to clean up after them? _

“He asked Tyrek to hand over the breastplate stretcher,” the older boy muttered angrily before Jaime had the chance to start asking questions. “When Tyrek couldn’t find it he laughed very hard and said only an idiot would look for something that didn't exist,” he continued, huffing. “He called a Lannister an idiot! Twice! I was so angry. I told him that he shouldn't have asked for something that didn't exist, and that's how it started.” Lancel finished his story and finally looked up to make eye contact with his cousin, his expression becoming hesitant for once.

Jaime sighed. If only he could sit back and yell out,  _ Uncle Kevan! Discipline your son!  _ and have his oldest uncle take the boy and teach him a lesson. But that was not the world he lived in. Instead, he decided to take matters into his own hands, if only to make his own life easier.

“Lancel,” he began firmly, “you can't do that. It's not fair to call Tyrek an idiot, and it's not fair to throw things at you. But he's the King, and you are to follow his every command, do you hear me? Without complaint!” he emphasized. But then Jaime sighed and lowered his voice. “Though if he ever tells you to do something very bad, like hurting or killing people, you remember my nickname,” he added.  _ Kingslayer.  _ It was the grandest kindness of his life, yet the greatest nightmare. Nevertheless, instead of recoiling in fear or disgust, the boy in front of him widened his eyes in anticipation.

_ He’s starting to understand _ , Jaime thought,  _ finally he’ll understand just how false all the songs of glory are _ .  _ All the knightly vows are shit, all the royalty is vile, all the-- _

“Kingslayer,” a voice cleared its throat behind him. Truth be told, he was never quite so happy to see Meryn Trant as when the so-called knight would come to replace him guarding Robert. Jaime gave him a curt nod and promptly directed himself to his sister's quarters.

_ Cersei. Cersei… _ the throbbing in his breeches grew as he knocked on the door of her chambers, three times, pausing, then two, just as he always did.

“Come in, brother,” she commanded from inside. At once, he pushed the door open, drinking in the sight of his twin. Her golden hair spread loose over her shoulder, her dress a beguiling crimson, her red lips pursed slightly, her green eyes gazing with furious intensity into thin air.  _ Seven hells,  _ he thought, much like he always did when looking at her, the ache in his groin only growing stronger. But today he noticed the faraway expression on her face, the built up anger and annoyance that was most often caused by one specific person in their usual vicinity.

“What has the oaf done this time?” he inquired carefully. She shot her gaze at him and cursed.

“The  _ fucking oaf _ has declared to send Tommen away!” she cried. “My youngest boy, rotting away in the barbaric, desolate North!”

_ So that's what the raven was for. Stark, I give you credit for seeping your claws into our family _ , he thought. Though more likely, for all his stupidity, it had been Robert to suggest the arrangement, as the Ned Stark that Jaime knew did not have a single political bone in his body.

“Of course it could have been worse,” his sister added, calming down some. “The vile pig had at first suggested marrying Joffrey to one of the Stark brats,” she explained. “Thankfully the man had refused the offer, saying the girl was  _ too young  _ for a betrothal, but now Robert is sending Tommen to foster instead!” she exclaimed. “He’s  _ four years old _ ! Barely a babe! Robert will pay for this!” she added, not without hysterics. 

“Cersei,” Jaime implored her as serenely as he could, “I could take him,” he suggested. “Robert would not dare refuse you that request, else he suffer your wrath quickly,” he explained, “and you know I would take good care of him,” he added softly.

Cersei sat there quietly, swirling a pen through her fingers as she contemplated the idea. Finally, she spoke.

“I could hardly bear to part with you, Jaime,” she all but whispered, “but for the sake of my child, I would,” she added. “Would people suspect?” she then thought aloud.

“They wouldn't dare,” Jaime scoffed, but then another idea came to him. “What if I take Tyrek and Lancel on the trip? I’ll be a  _ good family relation  _ to them all,” he suggested. He knew Robert wouldn't miss his two pages in the slightest, if the altercation this afternoon was of any indication.

“Our young cousins? Take them if you wish, I don't care,” she replied with a sneer. “But yes, that should be more than enough. Yes, Robert would comply to this. I will make him,” she added, a smile starting to form on her face. “Now, abed?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always been fascinated by the lesser Lannister cousins. Tywin's brothers are interesting characters, and Lancel and Tyrek are old enough to be past total childhood (unlike Myrcella or Tommen) so they have real personalities that we only see hints of in the books, so there's a lot of material to work with there. Both are on some spectrum of "morally grey" because of their Lannister upbringing, but character development is in fact a thing :)


	5. Robb IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb hangs out with Arya and Rickon. Then, plot twist!

**ROBB IV:**

“Robb! Robb! Rickon said something,” his little sister exclaimed, jumping up and down to the fascination and delight of the curly-haired infant, who shrieked and clapped to convey his appreciation. 

As Mother had some household duties to take care of and Father was holding council to discuss the concerns of the local stonemasons, it fell to Robb to keep an eye on the youngest Stark that afternoon. Theoretically, one of the maidservants or even Maester Luwin could have done it instead, but Robb wanted to spend some time with this energetic new babe. Rickon was a wild infant, swinging his fists everywhere and yelling heartily at a volume that constantly woke the entire household through the night -- even Bran, the heaviest sleeper of the family, was often disturbed from his dreams by the din of his only younger sibling. 

_ This time, I’ll do better _ ,  thought Robb not for the first time as he observed his new brother. His sister was right -- Rickon had just emitted a sound reminiscent of some sort of syllable, something close to “da” or “ba” or so.

“Do you think he’s saying ‘dad’?” asked Arya, laughing. “He thinks you’re Father!” she gasped, peering more closely at her new little brother. For all that she rejected feminine pursuits of any sort -- the institution of marriage most of all -- his sister was no less enamored of the curious babe than were the other members of her family.  _ It’s the first time she’s around babes _ , he realized. Arya would have been too young to really remember Bran as an infant, but now she was old enough to appreciate babes as a real older sibling.

“No Arya,” Robb replied, “He’s still a little young to say real words,” he added. Arya’s face fell a bit.

“Well, how old does he have to be?” she asked impatiently, poking little Rickon’s feet to tickle him and make him squeal of joy.

“I don’t know, exactly,” Robb told her honestly. “You took eight months to say the word ‘no.’ I’m too young to remember Sansa, but Mother tells me she took just about as long. Bran, well, Bran is Bran, you know,” here he trailed off. It wasn’t something he particularly noticed throughout his previous life, but his little brother was very curious and intelligent, nearly a prodigy…

“A genius?” Arya supplied, no malice or jealousy in her words. “Oh, come on, don’t look at me like that. Even if he did speak first, we both know who’s better at archery!” she protested when she noticed Robb looking at her carefully. He laughed, not denying her statement, though she was in fact wrong about one thing.

“Actually,” Robb countered, “it’s the opposite. He took well, well over a year. For a long while, all of us thought something was wrong with him,” he explained. “Father grew more and more serious if that's even possible, Mother was nearly beside herself, and Sansa prayed at the sept with Mother and at the godswood alone several times a day. But then one day when she took one of her storybooks to supper, Bran grabbed it, lifted it up with both of his little meaty hands and yelled: ‘boo!’ It took us all a few minutes to realize what just happened, but then everyone stopped worrying. And look at what he turned into.” 

Arya was in peals of laughter throughout the tale. “Truly?” she asked. Robb nodded earnestly, imitating the somber face of his father, which only made his sister laugh even harder. “What was I doing?” she asked excitedly.

“Well, since Maester Luwin and all the maidservants were all busy with your brother, it was my job to take care of you,” Robb explained, “It’s all my fault you like the swords and the tiltyard so much -- I was there every day with Jon, and I just set you down in a chair every morning. We had to be very careful, as you were prone to escape and jump right in the middle of our practice fights.” His sister’s eyes only widened with every detail Robb added.

“So it’s all your fault!” she exclaimed with a giggle. Robb only winked at her, starting his own bout of laughter. 

Yet the mirth on his face didn't last, as suddenly, his knees gave way and he crumpled to the floor.

It was a very specific feeling, albeit one he hadn't felt in over a year. But he remembered it well enough.

Well enough that dread immediately seeped through his mind as his body shivered in anticipation of --

_ Stark boy. _

Perplexed, Robb tried to gather himself together.

_ You have learned some things, but not enough. You don’t understand it yet, the urgency. _

He was annoyed. What urgency did he not understand? He knew he had to save his family from the wrath of the Lannisters, to keep them all from leaving the safe haven of the North --

_ There are other forces at work, forces you clearly do not know of. We...miscalculated. _

What in Planetos did the gods mean? What was the miscalculation? Did they not intend to send him back? Were they going to send him forward? Or were they --

_ Calm down, boy. You will be left here. We have merely ordained to send you an accomplice. A political mastermind who will help guide you, keeping your best interests at heart. _

_ A political master? Sharing my best interests?  _ The more he thought about it, the more confused he was. That final statement only helped raise more questions than answer them in Robb’s mind. Who was this political mastermind? Did there even exist a politician who cared about him as a person? The only people he could unquestionably trust were his family, but the shrewdest member of it was Mother, and gods knew it hadn't served her well in the end. His mother was intelligent and gave him correct political advice -- it was not the first time that Robb winced internally, cursing himself for not listening to her more in his past life -- but she was no Tywin Lannister. Yet Robb wasn't sure he could recall a single successful manipulator with a  _ higher _ level of compassion than the heartless Lord of Casterly Rock. And that wasn't even taking into account that this alleged master of politics was someone who could actually care about him, if only in the slightest.

_ Who could this possibly be _ , he continued to wonder. Yet the voice disappeared and so had any chance Robb had of asking more questions. Blinking, he found himself staring into the concerned grey eyes of his younger sister. 

“Robb? Are you not well?” she asked, eyebrows knitting together in a fashion that reminded him too much of Jon.  _ Little sister, this worrying does not suit you _ , he thought with a sigh.  _ You should be out playing or helping Bran with his scientific experiments. Leave the worrying to the adults. _

“Seems that I ate something that didn't agree with me,” Robb lied, brushing off her concerns. He was drained from the spiritual communication and desperately wanted to just fall asleep on the spot, but he kept his composure for a bit longer. “I’m going to lie down a bit. Ask Sansa to take care of Rickon, and for my sake, please, please do not fight with her very much,” he pleaded. Somewhere in his mind, he knew how futile that request was, but he ignored that thought, as he couldn't really bring himself to care right now.

“Fine, but only because of you,” she huffed. “I guess I’ll take Rickon to embroidery practice,” she added wryly. It was not without a chuckle that Robb realized his little sister had been sneaking out of lessons again, but again -- he had too little energy to even pretend to admonish her for it. He trudged up to his chamber and promptly fell asleep on top of his furs with all of his clothes still on.

He woke up with a start. It was pitch-dark in his room but for a small gleam of moonlight peeking in through his window. He walked over to it. From the position of the moon in the sky, Robb figured it had already been several hours that the entire castle had fallen asleep, yet it was far enough before dawn that it would still be several hours until anyone would be awake. 

Gazing out the window, there was a certain stillness in the air. He could see the tiltyard and stables below, empty and motionless but for the bobbing heads of the horses, fast asleep like everyone else in the fortress. It was silent but for the gentle motions of the breeze that swayed the curtains in his room and the leaves of the trees in the forest beyond the castle. For a moment, Robb wondered what had woken him in the first place, until he heard a quiet sob echo throughout the courtyard.

The sound was coming from a different tower, somewhere down below. Making sure to grab his sword -- sheathed, of course -- in the case of any trouble, he tiptoed down the spirals stairs that led to his room, down past Jon’s chambers and Bran’s room of dangerous herbs and liquids. There he turned right and walked more slowly until he reached the door near which the sobs were loudest.

Robb hadn't been here in a while, but he immediately recognized which door it was.

Or rather,  _ whose _ door.

He lifted his hand, not too surprised to notice that his fingers were shaking. Nevertheless, he balled them into a fist, swallowed his anxiousness down, and gently knocked three times. Cautiously, he turned the knob and slowly opened the door.

Her face was buried in her furs, her tears falling down her hands, which were shaking nearly as badly as Robb’s own. As he entered, she looked up, noticed him, and he didn't even have time to think about how her eyes looked a little different than usual before she snapped herself up from the bed and swept him up into an embrace.

“Robb,” she cried, “Robb! You’re alive,” she repeated, over and over again, her face buried in his shoulder. 

_ What does she mean, I'm alive?  _ he thought, his nervousness only growing as he returned her embrace. He released her, studying her face. It was her eyes that gave it away.

_ A political mastermind who will help guide me, with only my best interests at heart. _

The gods surely enjoyed their japes.

“Sansa,” he sighed, “we need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DIDN'T SEE THAT ONE COMING DIDJA.
> 
> (ok well maybe you started to catch on halfway through this chapter).
> 
> But seriously, I love time travel fix-its with multiple people sent back in time! And now we have two Stark siblings, with strengths that complement each other well, determined to keep their family safe and to protect the North from the incoming winter. Honestly, people keep talking about how Robb and Margaery would be a dream team, but Robb and grown-up Sansa? Sign me up!
> 
> Next chapter will be either Robb or Sansa POV, though I'm leaning towards Robb.


	6. Robb V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa -> Robb infodump, with a sprinkle of emotion from Robb and Sansa showing her skill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ: First of all, thank you for all your positive comments; I really appreciate them! I’m very thankful to have gotten so many, and they help counter the effect of negative comments, of which I started getting several after last chapter. While I welcome criticism of my work, I ask that you please keep it constructive. This means: explain what you dislike about my writing, why you dislike it, and what I could do to work on it -- in a polite tone.
> 
> Comments like “pairing Sansa/Domeric would not bring new alliances to the North, so consider a different marriage” or “bringing Sansa back may make things too easy” are polite and constructive. Comments like “why Sansa she sucks” or “you clearly don't know what to write” are not. (I’m paraphrasing these of course). 
> 
> Apologies for the delay in this chapter -- it's basically an info dump on Robb and thus hard/annoying to write, and I’ve also been packing/traveling/unpacking for the past few days, so it's been pretty crazy IRL. I plan to update this story 2-3 times per week throughout the summer; fall update schedule will be TBD.
> 
> Oh, I nearly forgot to add: no more people are going back in time. I promise.
> 
> Thank you for reading all the way through :) now onto the chapter!

**ROBB V:**

“We need to talk,” he told her. Sansa narrowed his eyes at him, searching his face, comprehension beginning to dawn on her. “Roose Bolton killed me,” he added. She widened her eyes in surprise, but no more, as she spoke in a serene tone.

“You too,” she sighed with a mixture of joy, relief, and perhaps even pity. “Brought back after the Red Wedding.”

“The  _ what? _ ”

“The Red Wedding. It's what everybody called the slaughter at the Twins,” she added. “Tywin Lannister was behind it,” she spat angrily. “His death brought no sympathy from me.”

“His death?” Robb asked, bewildered. Who could have killed that mighty, invincible lord? 

Come to think of it, just how many years had passed between his death and the time at which Sansa was brought back?  _ Was she dead, too? Did the Lannisters kill her after marrying her off and forcing a babe out of her? _

“Yes, Tyrion killed him,” she replied, looking at her brother. Robb was growing more befuddled by the second. “Oh  _ Robb _ , so much happened after your death!” she exclaimed. “I really must tell you, for we need to work together to amend all that went wrong in our previous lives.”

“Not all of it,” chimed in Robb. “I've already done some,” he added with a smile, seeing a couple of the worried lines on his sister's face fade with relief. “I’ve persuaded Father to take Tommen to foster instead of betrothing you to Joffrey,” he told her.

Sansa let out a long breath. “Thank the gods. And now we will have Tommen, who is a sweet boy, so the Lannisters can't do us any harm, really. But he will be safe here,” she thought out loud, her face turned into a strange mix of fear and sadness that Robb would be sure to inquire about in a few moments. Instead, for now, he changed the subject.

“So to throw off Joffrey, I suggested to Father that after meeting him, you should marry Domeric Bolton. Oh, and also--” here he stopped short, because Sansa recoiled from him in shock and terror.

“You did  _ what?”  _ she cried in disbelief. “To the Bolton heir?”

“Sansa, he’s not like his father, I have heard so from men I trust,” he implored, but she was shaking her head.

“Even if Domeric is the complete opposite of his father and bastard brother in character, it’s a bad idea to tie him directly to our family, Robb,” she began her explanation in zeal. “For if I were to marry him, Roose would make certain to kill you and Bran and Rickon and maybe even Jon and Father -- just so his grandchildren would inherit Winterfell!” Her voice shook at the end, but it only increased her volume.

For a moment, Robb sat in silence, taking in his sister’s thoughts. 

_ A political mastermind,  _ the gods had promised. He remembered his sister very differently. She was kind and gentle, a sweet lady at five in every sense of the word. Robb used to read her stories of knights and princesses, re-enacting them at her insistence. He would alternate between playing the princely hero and the evil monster, while she of course was always the damsel in distress to whom he'd make the most flowery, most ridiculous declarations of courtly love he could possibly think of.

_What_ _happened_ , he wondered with dread. _Was this truly my sister, once her dreams were all stripped away?_ _This pragmatic, disillusioned creature?_ An uneasy feeling crept into his stomach. He forced it away -- _I’ll ask her in a minute --_ for now, he would consider her warning.

_ She is probably wrong,  _ he told himself, shaking the voice away. 

_ But what if she’s right? Is it worth that risk? _

“Then, what do you propose?” he asked her cautiously. She nodded at him, calming herself down as she thought for a brief moment.

“Betroth him to a family we know is loyal to us,” she suggested. “A powerful family, so he and his father do not feel slighted -- one of the Manderly girls or Alys Karstark should suffice,” she added.

_ That is smart,  _ he acknowledged. But he wasn't completely convinced.

“And how is this betrothal going to happen?” he challenged. Sansa sent him a sneaky grin that resembled the constant facial expression of their younger sister, and suddenly, Robb wasn't looking forward to her response.

“Tell Father you’re curious to meet potential Northern brides,” she smirked, watching her brother’s face fall in horror. “Just a couple of them for now -- tell him you’re curious to meet the daughters of the most powerful vassal lords of the North. Invite them to Winterfell around the same time you wanted to invite Domeric for me.”

“Sansa, that would lead to a marriage pact for me and one of the other daughters. I don’t want that, and you know why,” he protested, his complaints sounding childish to his own ears when he noticed Sansa’s expression. 

_ Of course. _

Of course he would marry for politics. It was what his father and mother did, and his sister had nearly befallen the same fate, albeit she was far less fortunate. Guilt seeped in when he remembered that Sansa was at first betrothed to likely the worst creature in all Seven Kingdoms and then later married off to his salacious Lannister uncle.

“Robb, you've got to marry at some point,” Sansa said gently, shaking him from his thoughts. “You can get to know her first before issuing a formal betrothal, but you can't marry another Jeyne Westerling for the sake of preserving her honor, or for love, or anything like that,” she added cautiously.

Robb nodded, guilt still festering inside him. He was starting to see the sense in his sister’s idea.    
  
“That is smart,” he told her, “and I don't see how it could reasonably backfire,” he added, thinking out loud. "And, fine," he sighed. "I suppose I must marry for politics in the end. But this time, I would like to meet my future bride, at least, before promising myself away," he reasoned. Robb supposed that had he met Roslin Frey before going off on his campaign, he would have added a face (and a bit of personality) to a name and not succumbed to his baser desires with another woman.

“Thank you,” Sansa murmured, nearly whispering. “Robb, there is so much I must tell you, about our family, the war.”

“Our family?” Robb was confused.  _ What family? Who was left?  _ Their parents, their two little brothers were all dead. “Do you know what happened to Arya? Or is it about Jon?” he asked anxiously.

“Where do I even begin,” she muttered to herself. “I suppose I’ll start with this: Bran and Rickon are both alive. Theon didn’t kill them.”

_ Alive. His brothers...alive. _

_ Theon didn’t kill them. Theon... _

No. No. He had specifically taken pains to distance himself from Theon in this life. Granted, the younger version was not an utter monster, but rather, a misguided boy. But still. It had taken so much emotional energy to try to understand why Theon would kill his brothers.

Was it really all for naught?

“Rickon was brought back from Skagos by Davos Seaworth, Stannis Baratheon’s hand. He ended up traveling to Essos, though. Bran went north on a...quest of a sort Beyond the Wall, though he had to go finish it at the God’s Eye down in the Riverlands,” she continued. “Theon had seized Winterfell, but the two of them escaped.”

As his sister spoke, Robb’s chest began to feel lighter. Yes, Theon was a delusional youth right now. Yes, he had been a traitor and Robb would not trust him again. But this boy that he had grown up with and loved in his past life was not a monster.

“And Jon? Arya?” he asked, forcing himself to change the subject before he fell too far into a pit of his own musings.

“Arya had escaped King’s Landing before they even killed Father. She was all over the place, but ended up coming North again. She and Rickon escaped to Essos,” his sister supplied, but Robb noticed she was choosing her words very carefully, as if she didn’t want him to know too much.

“Escaped? What were they escaping?” he asked in a low voice. “And you didn’t mention anything about Jon. I know you don’t think of him as family, but he’s our brother,” he added in annoyance. 

“He is not our brother,” she said gently. 

“Oh very well, our  _ half- _ brother if you wish, but--”

“He is not our brother,” she stated, more firmly this time. She looked at him sharply, and he had a sudden intake of breath.  _ This is not her childhood prejudice _ , he realized. Something else was afoot. “The gods know I loved him. I was closer to him than I ever was to Bran, to Rickon. Even to you,” she continued, her voice shaking slightly.

_ What happened _ , he thought for the thousandth time that night.  _ What happened? Sansa, tell me. Tell me! _

“Jon is our cousin,” she told him.

_ Wait. What did she say? _

No. That was ridiculous. That was utterly ludicrous, except...except that Sansa suddenly looked more like Father than she ever had before, solemn and wise like the Old Gods themselves.

“He is the trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. And he’s the only one who can save us all. Winter is really coming, Robb. The Long Night returns.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah this is...not my favorite chapter. Again, it’s basically an info dump, and yeah, it’s kind of clunky and awkward. 
> 
> Sansa/Domeric was never my plan -- it was a suggestion made by Robb who’s just sticking his head into politics. It would be too nice and neat if all of his first plans were to fall into place. Don’t worry, Domeric will feature in this fic, and Sansa will be “paired up” (whatever that may mean) with someone worthy, a very specific person who I’ve decided upon a while ago.
> 
> More details about what happened past-books with all our favorite Starks will be cleared up soon, but first...let’s go back to King’s Landing.


	7. Jaime II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime prepares to leave for Winterfell with unlikely companions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was going to be a giant chapter that would lead all the way up to the Lannisters’ departure for Winterfell, but there was too much stuff to fit in. I’m not really good at writing very long (4000+ words), cohesive chapters, and I honestly prefer to update frequently with shorter chapters (1500-2500 words), so that's usually what you’re going to get.
> 
> To clarify: it may not seem like it, given what Sansa has stated about the fates of herself and her siblings, but I am in fact going off book-verse. I have watched the show though, and it’s been a while since I’ve read the books, so if I do mix some things up, please let me know!
> 
> Trigger warning: semi-graphic description of violence done to children (but nothing that would really give this an E rating). But otherwise, enjoy King’s Landing!

**JAIME II:**

“Lannister!” boomed a familiar voice from the King’s chambers, issuing a command Jaime had possibly heard a million times. It had been five minutes, he figured, since the last time the King yelled out his name. 

Sighing, Jaime opened the door and strode up to the oaf’s seat, gritting his teeth as he bowed of politeness.

“What is it now, your Grace?” he asked exactly how he did just a few moments before, when the pig wanted another bottle of wine. 

“I forgot to say,” the oaf started, gulping down the contents of his goblet, “that you will accompany my youngest on his trip to the North.” He smashed the goblet down on the tray and poured himself a new cupful.

“Yes, your Grace,” Jaime replied, for what else was he to say? Though he was relieved that his involvement would not be resisted by the oaf. “Your Grace, when are we to leave?”

“You leave in a fortnight,” the oaf commanded, taking the goblet from his lips. “I can’t delay Ned’s offer any longer. Start preparing,” he added gruffly, chugging down the wine once more.

“Yes, your Grace,” Jaime responded, bowing stiffly and walking out the door.  _ Damn you Robert, you tell me now?  _ He only had a single fortnight with Cersei before they were to be separated for months! Did Cersei even know about their sudden departure, or was he being told before the  _ mother  _ of the child in question?

“Lannister!” boomed the oaf  _ again _ . Groaning internally, Jaime turned around.

“Yes, your Grace?” he asked, hardly able to keep his irritation out of his tone this time. Jaime was never known to be particularly cool-headed, but he thought himself remarkably patient in dealing with the vile man before him.

“I nearly forgot,” he replied with a slight chuckle, which really came out as a loud grunt. “Take your Lannister cousins with you,” he added. “I can hardly stand to see them any longer, especially that older one. Tell your father they’ve finished their training as pages, though the Seven know they’re incompetent fools,” he grumbled, hardly looking up from pouring yet another glass full of wine for himself.

“Of course, your Grace,” Jaime replied, gritting his teeth only slightly. “Will that be all?”

“Yes, go, go,” Robert said, waving away the distinguished Kingsguard as if he were a fly in his dinner. Bowing quickly, Jaime dashed out of the room to go punch a wall somewhere before returning to his post.

“Cousin Jaime,” a voice stirred him from his thoughts. He whirled around, only to come face to face with Joffrey -- no, it was Tyrek. “Where is the King sending us?” The boy was trembling all over, and so Jaime grabbed him by the shoulders to stand him upright.  _ Almost as soft as Tommen _ , he thought, feeling the boy wince at his touch. “Cousin Jaime, that hurts,” he whimpered.

“Don't grab him there!” shouted a new voice -- the familiar, cocksure voice of his other cousin. The annoying, angry one. Jaime groaned internally and shot his oldest cousin a glare, at which the boy visibly gulped. “I apologize for the outburst, Cousin. But he’s hurt,” Lancel added in a softer tone. “A  _ certain someone _ is responsible.”

_ What in Seven hells? _ Jaime could understand why the oaf would beat his older page -- Lancel was hot-tempered and arrogant and had often talked back to the King in anger, but Tyrek was of a far milder, gentler disposition. Unless...

“Did he beat you too?” Jaime asked his belligerent cousin, sending him a sharp look. Lancel faltered under his gaze, his cheeks growing pink.

“N-no,” the boy muttered, eyes turning to the left.  _ He’s so damn terrible at lying _ , thought Jaime,  _ thankfully, that’s not a skill he’ll need in the barren North, and yet… _

“You’re an awful liar,” Jaime remarked, voicing his thoughts. “Get better,” he added. Lancel scowled, his cheeks reddening further.

“And who do I practice on, you?” the boy retorted.  _ Proud, he’s so proud. With an infuriatingly sharp tongue _ . Jaime was sure that he would have throttled the boy a long time ago had they not been kin.

“You need to pull back that tongue of yours before someone decides to cut it off,” Jaime muttered, gritting his teeth. “Go take Tyrek to his room; I’ll be there when I finish this shift,” he ordered. Lancel, having paled at Jaime’s threat, nodded and led Tyrek away without a word.

Jaime groaned and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. Not for the first time, he wondered whose  _ utterly fantastic  _ idea it had been to send those two cousins to be in close proximity to the oaf. He should really speak to his father about sending those two to squire elsewhere, but his father would not be here for several days…

“And what troubles you today?” asked a familiar voice before him, equal parts concerned and amused. Jaime’s back shot up, his eyes snapping open.

“Brother,” he exclaimed, “I thought you were at Casterly Rock?” he asked, confused. 

“I’ve decided to join your trip,” Tyrion declared. “How many Westerosi can possibly claim to have been to the snowy North? It will be quite an adventure,” he added excitedly. 

_ Oh, thank the Seven _ , thought Jaime.  _ At least now I’ll have some decent conversation, some of the time. _

“Tyrion, you have made the trip infinitely better,” confessed Jaime, sighing in relief.

“Truly?” his little brother asked, raising his thin right eyebrow in half-jesting surprise.

“I was to content myself with the company of two young boys who cannot hold conversation and one who can hold it far too well,” Jaime grumbled. “And perhaps another Kingsguard, though that does not do much to improve the lot.” But as he thought of his young cousins, he remembered his goal. “Tyrion, you came with Father?”

“Indeed,” his brother responded more solemnly than he had before. “Somehow we were able to tolerate each other for the week’s journey,” he added bitterly. “Why do you need Father?”

“Our cousins need to find a knight to squire for,” Jaime explained. “One that is  _ preferably not  _ the one they have served as pages,” he added through clenched teeth. Comprehension dawned on Tyrion’s face. 

“Is it quite so bad?” he asked.

“Beatings. Even Tyrek,” Jaime explained with a sigh. Tyrion’s eyes widened a bit, but he said nothing. This was wise, as Ser Meryn had arrived to relieve Jaime of his duty. The two Kingsguard nodded to each other, acknowledging Jaime’s newfound freedom. Instead of prowling to his sister's chambers as he usually did just after finishing his shift, Jaime took a sharp turn to his cousins’ quarters, with Tyrion following him.

“Are you going where I think you’re going?” asked Tyrion. 

“Perhaps,” Jaime replied noncommittally. “Depends on where you think I’m going,” he added, finally arriving at the door to his cousins’ chambers. He knocked harshly on the wooden surface. “It’s Cousin Jaime,” he announced, striding in without waiting for a reply. Yet once he saw what was inside the room, he stopped in his tracks.

“Seven hells,” whispered Tyrion beside him.  _ Seven hells, indeed. _

Tyrek was sitting upright, his skinny back in plain view of the two mismatched brothers. What had initially been a cream-colored surface had become a mix of black, blue, purple, and the occasional red. There was one particularly nasty bruise that covered his entire shoulder blade and then another. Lancel was busy rubbing in some clear salve or ointment onto the bleeding sections -- thankfully, there were few, though the situation still looked very severe. Blood was dripping from the young boy’s back onto the tiled floor, seeping through the cracks. Yet there was far too much of it...too much to have come from just Tyrek’s back.

Jaime watched as Lancel slowly slid on the salve. The older boy’s fingers were trembling and his face was pale. But what really gave it away was the blood dripping from the wide sleeves of his crimson doublet.  _ Lannister red for Lannister pride _ .

“Lancel, lie down,” commanded Jaime. “On your stomach.” The boy let out a whimper as Tyrion grabbed the salve from his hands, but complied. Jaime sent Tyrion a look, glancing down at Tyrek.  _ You’ll handle the younger one.  _ His brother seemed to get the message, as he turned his back to Jaime and proceeded to apply more salve onto the younger boy’s back.

Meanwhile, Jaime ripped off Lancel’s doublet and sucked in his breath. The older boy had far fewer bruises than the younger one, but they were replaced with wide cuts that were still bleeding.

“Tyrion, the salve,” Jaime asked in a low voice. Wordlessly, his little brother passed him the item in question without turning around, and Jaime proceeded to liberally coat his cousin’s open wounds with it.  _ Thank the Seven that Robert is officially releasing him _ , he thought.  _ Now Father won't have to force him. _

Soon enough, the two Lannister brothers had finished tending to their cousins.  _ Like maids, we are,  _ thought Jaime,  _ though it's important that this matter stays confidential until I talk to Father, so it's not as if we could have called in any servants.  _ With both boys’ eyelids beginning to droop, the men left them in their beds and sneaked out of the room.

“What are you going to tell Father?” sighed Tyrion. “And how bad was Lancel?”

“I’ll tell him whatever I need to so that they are sent to squire somewhere else and get out of my sight,” Jaime muttered. “Lancel was...bloodier,” he summarized. Tyrion seemed to get the hint.

“I thought he was the annoying one?” he asked in surprise. “Yet he probably shielded his cousin,” he added. Jaime shook his head.

“That may be,” he conceded, “ but probably it was his provocation that led to  _ both  _ their beatings,” Jaime reasoned.

“Ah, so guilt,” Tyrion deduced. “Guilt, with a touch of brotherly affection,” he mused, sending Jaime a sideways glance, “it makes for a plausible motive.”

“I suppose,” Jaime said stiffly, grimacing. He knew exactly what Tyrion was implying. In their childhood, Cersei would prod and pinch and even hit their little brother whenever she could. He would try to stop his twin from her violent displays of hatred, but it only worked whenever he was present to do so.  _ The Seven only know how much she hurt him when I wasn't there. _

_ Cersei.  _

_ I have to tell her about Tommen,  _ he thought, though it was likely she knew already. Regardless, she would be seeking some  _ comfort  _ tonight…

_ No.  _

_ Not today. _

_ First, I must see Father. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I may have demonized Bobert a tad in this fic, but I imagine him being a very violent drunk and the Lannister cousins (mostly Lancel) not catching on that they need to gtfo when he’s like that, thus becoming a prime target for Bobert's violent tendencies. Besides this, it's true that Robert beating up kids is ooc (to some extent, remember how he wanted to murder the Targaryen kids?) which means something happened for him to get that violent on that particular day; you'll find out more details soon. Also, don't worry, Tywin and Cersei won't stand for this either (though the tragic thing is neither of them actually care that much about their “lesser” cousins).
> 
> I realize that Lancel brushing off his wounds here is a stark contrast to his behavior at Blackwater, but Blackwater is far, far away and the kid is still in his formative years. (There's other arguments I can offer as to why he isn't very ooc in this chapter, but they’re way too long to write up here).
> 
> Next chapter: Sansa.


	8. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa sends her sister an olive branch and works to placate Robb about recent events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hadn’t expected Sansa to be such a natural voice for me to write in. I mean, I wrote this in about half the time it takes me to write a Jaime chapter that’s usually shorter than this, so I finished this Sansa POV wayyyy earlier than expected. Enjoy your belated birthday present :P

**SANSA I:**

Given the seeming outlandishness of Sansa’s accounts of the future, she thought her brother had taken it rather well. Stumbling, his head rather dizzy, he quietly listened to every word, night after night. After three evenings of discussion -- specifically, a fairly one-sided discussion on her part -- Robb had finally processed most of the key points about the fate of their family and, really, of the entire world.

She didn't tell him everything of course. None of the abuse; nothing from his time alive. None of the unwanted sexual advances of Littlefinger. None of the favors she had done for Harry Hardyng in his seduction. 

_ I can take care of myself this time _ , she reassured herself,  _ my skin is steel from the start.  _ Robb would not have to know -- he would never, ever have to know -- and she could shield him from the guilt of not having exchanged her for Ser Jaime.

“Oh, wonderful, wonderful, Lady Sansa!” exclaimed Septa Mordane beside her during one of her embroidery lessons. “Though I wonder if you would choose a...prettier subject,” she added. The young Sansa of nine and a half years would always decorate her handkerchiefs with pretty flowers or songbirds.  _ Leave the roses to the Tyrells _ , she thought,  _ and as for the birds...I am not one anymore. _

No more doves or falcons or...or mockingjays. No, she was sewing on a direwolf. 

“I’m not sure if you are aware, Septa, but this is in fact the sigil of our house. Could there be anything more ladylike?” Sansa replied.

Arya, sitting across Sansa, grumbling as always when she was in sewing lessons -- today was one of the days she in fact wasn't skipping -- perked her ears up at Sansa’s remark. Noting Arya’s attention, Sansa sent her a wink, further bewildering her little sister.

_Good_ , Sansa thought, _let her think_. One of the things she regretted most during her time as a hostage was her sibling rivalry with Arya. Their relationship had always been strained, and when Arya made it back to Winterfell, it took her a while to open up to even Jon. Of course, it took the longest for her to open up to Sansa, and that stung the most. _We have a second chance_ _now_ , thought Sansa, _and I won’t waste it._

“Here you go, Arya,” she proclaimed, holding out her finished work. It was a handkerchief of light grey rather than white, so that dirt stains would not be nearly as visible, and in the corner was a ferocious direwolf head done as realistically as Sansa could remember.

“I don’t want your frilly things,” Arya snorted indignantly, not looking up from her attempts at sewing.

“Look at it first,” Sansa asked gently. Her little sister turned her face up with an annoyed expression that quickly turned to one of wonder, her mouth forming a small ‘o’ shape.

“Really, Sansa?” she breathed. “This is for me?” 

Sansa nodded encouragingly, handing off the piece of cloth to her little sister so that she could examine it some more.

“It’s a wonder you didn’t embroider a horse,” snickered Jeyne Poole from Sansa’s left side.  _ Poor girl _ . Sansa recalled her from her past life when she had been found near Winterfell -- thin, cold, with a frostbitten nose tip and eyes that would have told of a broken soul if not for Theon Greyjoy.  _ She won’t ever be touched by Ramsay or Petyr _ .  _ I’ll make sure of it. _

But this girl before her was young Jeyne, not the shadow of a girl that Sansa remembered. And young Jeyne’s taunts would not be excused.

“Jeyne, stop it,” Sansa ordered firmly without raising her voice. “It’s unkind. Father says Arya looks just like our aunt, and she was a beauty,” she added looking at Arya. No less confused than before, her little sister seemed a bit relieved.

“Thank you, Sansa,” she said in a small voice. 

“You’re welcome,” her sister replied. “I hope you don’t get it too dirty,” she added with a smile.

The door suddenly opened without announcement, but the person who strode in was not Septa Mordane.

“Mother,” Sansa gasped, rising. “Is something wrong?” Her mother’s face was grave, which was not often the case.  _ Has Jon Arryn died before I’ve even tried to save him? Has Joffrey decided to come north? _

“Not exactly,” Mother replied impassedly. “Come, both of you, your father wants to see you,” she added, beckoning her daughters to her, Arya pocketing her new handkerchief. The three of them made their way to Father’s solar, where they were met by all the male members of their family -- or at least, all the males who could walk and talk. Even Jon was there. 

_ What could this be _ , Sansa wondered with dread.  _ Has something happened already? Why else would Father talk to all of us? _

Father cleared his throat, his left hand clutching a piece of parchment.

“In a moon’s time, we will begin fostering Prince Tommen Baratheon, the King’s younger son,” he announced.

_ Of course _ , Sansa thought, relief flowing over her like a snowfall. In all her worrying, she had completely forgotten about her older brother’s tactical move. She looked at Robb now, nodding imperceptibly.

But Father wasn’t done.

“He is being escorted by Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard, and he is joined by two Lannister cousins and his uncle Lord Tyrion,” her father finished stiffly. He tossed the letter onto the table, sighing. “Essentially, at the King’s command, we are to host a party of  _ Lannisters  _ within a month.”

Sansa’s mind was spinning. Jaime? Lannister cousins? Tyrion?  _ This is our chance _ , she thought, her heart racing.  _ I don’t know which cousins are coming, but Jaime and Tyrion are alright _ . And best of all, Joffrey and Cersei would be far, far away.

“I want all of you on your absolute best behavior,” Father commanded, his voice growing louder, but not to the level of a shout. He looked each of his children in the eye for a moment before continuing. “You must be very careful with what you say and do. These are not Northern lords. These people could be our enemy, a very dangerous enemy.”

Sansa sucked in a breath, glancing at the rest of her family’s reactions. Mother and Robb of course were unsurprised, Jon had paled slightly, Bran’s face had grown pensive, and Arya had a glint of anger in her eyes.

_ Father, you’re right to be cautious _ , Sansa thought,  _ but they’re not our enemies. Not these Lannisters. Not yet. _ She schooled her expression into one of mild shock as her family’s eyes drifted upon her, though she truly felt an odd mixture of excitement and disappointment.

“That is all,” Father finished once he was content that his warning had been genuinely heeded by his children. Bran and Arya ran off, dashing to the kitchens mayhaps. Jon was walking out more calmly with Robb at his side--

“Robb!” Sansa exclaimed. “We need to talk,” she added with a quiet intensity. He seemed to understand what exactly she meant by that, as he nodded.

“Jon and I are going to practice some more,” he said. “Talk after supper?” 

* * *

As soon as the door to Sansa’s chambers was shut, Robb punched her wall.

“Those motherfucking Lannisters!” he spat. To his credit, he did try to keep his voice below a shout, and yet, Sansa was slightly annoyed.

_ I should be more forgiving _ , she thought,  _ he doesn’t know them. Not really. _

“Robb, that’s what I’m here to talk to you about. The motherfucking Lannisters are exactly the ones who are  _ not _ coming on this trip,” she implored.  _ Yes, that’s right, I can use foul language if I want to _ , she thought. It didn’t exactly come naturally to her, but she wanted to show her brother that she was not the little girl he knew.

It seemed to work, a bit. Slumping down into a chair, he gaped at her, completely perplexed -- no less than any of the previous nights when she had told him about the White Walkers and dragons and their brother, the Three-Eyed Raven.

“Since when do you...never mind,” he spluttered. “What do you mean by that? The  _ Kingslayer _ is a cocky ass who threw our younger brother off a tower hoping he would die, killed Father’s men in King’s Landing, and oh, may I mention that he fucks his sister? The Imp is a whoremonger and an alcoholic who sent an assassin after the same little brother and was forcibly married to  _ you _ , dear sister.”

_ He’s not wrong _ , she thought, sighing.  _ It makes sense to him, but I need to convince him otherwise. _

“May I remind you that I am in fact the authority on what happened in King’s Landing? And did I not tell you that Tyrion never took my maidenhead,” she began. “The assassin was sent by Littlefinger, who framed Tyrion because as I told you two nights ago, it was Littlefinger who started the entire War of Five Kings. What’s more, Tyrion  _ protected _ me in King’s Landing, when he could.”

Her brother’s face was alert, his eyes searching her face as he took in every word she uttered.

“Littlefinger...yes, you mentioned him...maidenhead...protected?” Robb muttered, following her train of thought. “Sansa, what was Tyrion protecting you from?” he asked in a low voice.

Sansa wanted to slap herself.  _ I said too much _ , she thought, cringing inwardly.  _ I opened up too much. _ Her brother was not an idiot; he was bound to have caught that.

“He was protecting me from Joffrey,” she replied as blankly as she could.  _ Very well, may as well tell a white lie.  _ “Joffrey would hit me sometimes, but whenever Tyrion was there, he wouldn’t do it,” she added bashfully.  _ Believe it, Robb, believe it… _

“How much?” her brother asked, dangerously quiet.

“Perhaps once a moon, once a fortnight. I don't really remember. Robb, this is beside the point--”

“Once a  _ fortnight?”  _ He asked, his voice rising. Then he paled as a thought seemed to come to him. “Did he...touch you in any other way?”

“You mean did he molest me or rape me? No,” she replied. That, at least, was the truth.  _ If he had thought of that, he would.  _ Robb seemed to calm a bit at that. “Robb, it's in the past. This time, we’ll crush him and his hateful mother first.”

“And you say the Imp helped prevent that?” He sighed, feeling defeated. “When I think about it, he  _ did  _ bring Bran a specific saddle design so he could ride. I suppose I could stomach him. And the others? His brother?”

“Tommen is a sweet boy,” Sansa began, starting with the easiest. “The Lannister cousins...I do not know them very well; I’ve only talked to Lancel for a bit, though he had changed much upon what I last heard of him...they are children now, I would let their characters speak for themselves. As for Jaime,” she sighed, knowing this would be the hardest of all, “he is poisoned by his sister. I won't deny his transgressions in the past life, but he repented for them. He came to Winterfell and...talked with Bran, who forgave him. He brought his armies to the North and fought with Jon, side by side. He’s the one who sent Brienne to me -- remember I told you about Brienne? He saved my life, more than once.”

“But you still died in the end, didn’t you?” Robb responded bitterly. “And he still killed the king he served.”

“It wasn’t what you think, Robb. He killed the king because he had to -- I heard from Brienne, who whose judgement I would trust with my life,” Sansa replied. Robb raised his eyebrows a bit, but otherwise remained skeptical. “Look, I’m not saying he isn’t an arrogant ass right now. He definitely is. But he hasn’t committed any real crimes yet, and he won’t do anything if his sister isn’t here to influence him. All I ask is that you keep calm around him and don’t let him antagonize you.”

Robb snorted, his anger receding somewhat.

“I still don’t understand what you mean when you say  _ he had to _ ,” he retorted harshly. “For your sake, sister, I promise not to start anything while he is here,” he told her, his tone lightening. “But if he even  _ dares _ lay a hand on any of us, mark my words, he will pay.”

And with that, he snapped up from his seat and wordlessly walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

_ He needs better manners _ , thought Sansa,  _ but that was not so terrible. I can work with this. _

_ Lannisters, prepare yourselves. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so it may seem like Sansa romanticizes the Lannisters here somewhat. In her defense, she had minimal interaction with swordsman-Jaime as most of her interaction (in her “future”) was with cripple-Jaime. As for Tyrion, yes she is playing it up a little, but she also recognizes the necessity of trying to make peace with him and most of his family. You could probably tell by how rude Robb was at the end there, but this conversation is NOT over.
> 
> This chapter brings up some of the main questions this fic will be exploring: is it right to seize the fates of those who may bring harm to you/others in the future? If it’s not right, could it be necessary? Is it worth taking a risk if the survival of the whole world is at stake? How do we choose who to redeem and who to execute?


	9. Jaime III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime's day just gets crazier and crazier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit later than expected; my laptop BSOD’ed a few days ago and I’m still fixing and reinstalling everything.
> 
> Note: I’ve decided to age Myrcella up by 3 years. The show made me forget how young she was in book canon, so now I’m putting her at right between Arya and Sansa’s age in this fic. Sorry about this; normally I hate to change things like that but it's necessary this time for aspects of this story to work.

**JAIME III:**

Shouting.

His Father was a fearsome man, even -- especially? -- to his own children. Yet throughout Jaime’s life, he knew his father to possess a quiet grace. Tywin Lannister was the sort of man who could command a room with a subtle turn of the head, a piercing gaze, a single glare. He did not deign to raise his voice; he was fully capable of being terrifying without it. Which meant something must have happened. 

A new voice began to yell back. A female voice.

_ Cersei.  _ The uneasy feeling in his stomach sank even lower.  _ What have you done now? _

Jaime braced his courage. Regardless of what his sister had done to anger the Lannister patriarch, he would never leave her to face their father’s wrath alone.  _ Cersei, I’m coming for you. _

The door to Tywin Lannister’s study opened with a loud thud.

“Jaime,” his father began in a careful tone, “were you aware of your sister’s idiocy?”

_ I was right _ , Jaime thought. But instead of being reassured, he felt like someone had just stabbed him with a dull blade.  _ Cersei, you told me nothing _ .  _ Don't you trust me, sister? _

“I have no idea what you mean, Father,” he responded shakily, trying to keep his composure as best as he could. His response didn't seem to please the man in the slightest, but his father didn't seem to want to dwell.

“One of Robert’s grown bastards had a rather unfortunate  _ accident  _ sometime last night that ended in his death,” he spoke, glaring pointedly at his daughter. “A rather poorly arranged accident, that is.”

_ Oh, Seven hells.  _

He had been a fool to think that him escorting Tommen would sufficiently placate his sister on being deprived of his son. No, Cersei had to get her revenge, and she did so in the most direct manner.

_ A son for a son. _

But the question remained.

“Cersei, you never said anything,” he croaked. “I thought we trusted each other.” His sister turned around with an expression of what could be mild annoyance, or so Jaime perceived. But she looked at him, and her gaze seemed to soften.

“Plausible deniability,” she said after a moment. “I needed you as uninvolved as possible,” she explained.  _ We’ll discuss later _ was the unspoken message. Jaime sighed, but she had the right idea -- not a smart plan to discuss emotionally wrought topics in front of Tywin Lannister.

“Has Robert been informed his son is dead?” he asked the two of them, changing the subject somewhat.

“He was told this morning,” flippantly replied his sister.

_ This morning...of course.  _ It all made sense. The severity of his cousins’ beatings could only have come about with a particularly violent, particularly pissed Robert. And the death of a son would be enough for that, especially for someone as emotionally volatile as the oaf.

“Father, I need to speak with you,” Jaime muttered, avoiding his sister with all his effort to avoid an outburst. Thankfully, his father seemed to understand the urgency.

“Cersei, you may leave,” Father said in the tone of an order rather than a request. His sister didn't need to think twice as she dashed out of the room, but not before sending one last scathing glare at the Lannister patriarch. The door slammed as she walked out. 

Tywin was unfazed. 

“Sit, Jaime. I believe this matter is urgent?” he asked stiffly. 

“Father, Cersei’s actions may have caused more harm to our family than you know,” Jaime began. His father let out something between a snort and a grunt.

“Her actions haven't caused harm to us that I know of, now that I am here to clean up her mess,” he explained. “But it was utter foolishness and poorly planned. She should have been more patient and discreet.”

“That is not of what I am speaking, Father,” Jaime replied. “With Robert’s drunken violence growing, I begin to fear for the safety of our cousins in his employ.”

“Tyrek and Lancel?” Tywin raised an eyebrow. 

“He beat them this morning until they bled -- and beyond that,” Jaime began. “Though he would often throw things at them or slap Lancel for his sharp tongue, he had never entered such a rage in their presence.”

There was a pause as his father took in this information, his face remaining calm but for a single flicker in his eyes.

“Occasional beatings are necessary,” he remarked, “but you said these boys were quite bloodied?”

“Indeed, Father, I believe the circumstances are dire enough to seek an alternate knight for them to squire for,” Jaime responded firmly, not breaking his father’s gaze. There was a pause of silence as Tywin Lannister presumed a specific expression that Jaime knew well to be one of pensiveness.

“Very well,” he finally spoke. “The Stormlands we have, the Riverlands are not so stable, the Reach I have other plans for.  Take your cousins on your trip north; I’ll have a letter waiting for you at the Starks’ castle with an assignment to some knight in the Vale.”

Jaime sighed in relief that his cousins would be squired far away.  _ That way I won't have to act as their parent anymore.  _ But this did mean that his return trip would be delayed, and it would have to be more moons than he expected to go without seeing Cersei.

_ I must speak with her _ .

“Thank you Father, now I think I will go find our sister and get the details of the events from her,” he told the man truthfully.  _ It's not as if I could lie without getting caught.  _ But the Lannister patriarch simply nodded and waved Jaime out of his study, already writing a letter to presumably a Vale knight.

Jaime didn’t waste any time. He walked out of Tywin’s study at a calm pace, but immediately sped up in the hall outside. It required no thought to twist and turn through the corridors, climb up and down the stairs, as he had taken this exact path so many thousands of times that he just let his unconscious lead his body. He was nearly there, just partway up the tower, just past the royal children’s chambers…

“Uncle Jaime!”

_ Seven hells, what now?  _ He spun around and sighed. A child’s face looked up at him: all the long golden hair and flushed cheeks and sparkling green eyes of his niece.

“Myrcella, what is it?” he asked, trying to mask his annoyance but probably failing.  _ Please don’t ask me to find Tommen’s cat again.  _ If the previous time her younger brother’s cat had run off was any indication, it would be several hours before he actually could see Cersei.

“Uncle Jaime, could you come help me find something under my bed please?” she asked. He looked at her quizzically.  _ Don’t you have maidservants to help you with that? _ Her glance was unwavering though, as she stared at him quite insistently. Jaime sighed and relented, walking in.  _ This will only be a moment, and then I’ll be off. _

But when the two of them entered her chamber, Myrcella immediately shut the door, locking it. She whirled around and Jaime’s breath caught in his throat as the expression on her face had grown somber, though no less determined. 

_ This will not be only a moment... _

“Uncle Jaime, I know you’re taking Tommen away from here,” she began, carefully choosing her words.

“Yes, what of it?” he asked impatiently.  _ What am I getting into _ , he thought with a sense of dread.

“Take me with you.”

_ Oh, Seven hells.  _ Jaime let out a long breath. 

“You know I can’t do that,” he replied, though his words didn’t seem to surprise her in the least. 

“Please,” she implored, “You’re taking Tommen -- even Lancel and Tyrek -- so there will be no one for me to play with. Even Uncle Tyrion is going, so there will be no one to talk to.”

“You’ll have your mother, and Joffrey,” Jaime offered, though he knew the latter was poor excuse for company, even at the age of eleven. 

“Joffrey frightens me,” she whispered. “He kills Tommen’s cats and he says mean things to us. Mother doesn’t notice,” she added. “Please Uncle Jaime, don’t leave me with just Mother! She would be occupied with Joffrey.”

“Myrcella, your mother loves you very much,” Jaime began. “Now I know it’s going to be hard for you not to have your playmates, but you need to be a good girl for your mother. She’s going to miss Tommen very much.”

Yet instead of placating his niece, his words seemed to have the opposite effect. Myrcella’s face grew pinker, her face contorted into a mix of exasperation and anger.

“That’s not fair! You’re not understanding me, Uncle Jaime. Once all of you leave, no one will be there to keep Joffrey from being mean to me,” she replied in frustrations, eyes beginning to swell with tears.

_ She looks like a young Cersei _ , Jaime thought,  _ and when have I ever been able to refuse my sister? _

He shook his head. Cersei was already miserable that Tommen was to leave -- how would she feel if  _ two  _ of her three children were sent to the opposite end of the Seven Kingdoms?

“Myrcella, much as I’d like to, I cannot do that,” he reiterated gently. “I don’t want your mother to stop being upset.”

“Why, so you can keep kissing her?” 

_ What… _

The air in his lungs seemed to freeze. He couldn’t breathe. Every inch of his body began to shake as his knees gave out, crashing onto the floor.

_ How… _

“I saw you once, you know, with Mother. I was crying because Joffrey ripped my dolls and I wanted Mother to hug me, but then I saw you kissing and...other stuff,” Myrcella admitted. “Uncle, I’m not sad,” she added quietly. “The King doesn’t make her happy, but you do. I like it when she’s happy.”

_ She’s not...I’m not… _

_ I’m not a monster? _

“You’re...not?” he uttered these two words, leaving himself bare for his daughter to cast him down forever if she so chose.

“No, Father.”

_ Father. _

He had never been called that before. His nephews and niece were just that. They were Cersei’s to raise…

_ Father. _

Just that one word...that one word began a little voice that crept into his head. 

_ I could have a child.  _ A child that accepted him and all the darkness that came with it.

_ I have a chance… _

“Alright,” he choked. “Don’t say anything, and let me leave before I change my mind,” he added, bursting out of the door (which Myrcella had graciously unlocked immediately) and dashing into the corridor, mind reeling.

_ What have I done? Cersei’s wrath will know no ends. _ He hoped, for their sakes, that no other acknowledged bastards of Robert’s were in the city.

A cold feeling came over him. How was he to face Cersei now? 

_ But I have to do it _ .

With steely resolve, he strode over to the door to Cersei’s chamber, pushing it open before he could think to hesitate. 

“Jaime!” she cried out, rising from her chair, her undone hair flying around to caress him. Dread gnawed at him upon seeing his sister’s face -- so expressive, so open. “I did it for revenge, for Tommen, you’ve got to--”

“I understand,” Jaime muttered. 

_ Lying to Cersei? I can’t take this anymore. _

He sealed his guilt and silence with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arghhh angst is so difficult. Jaime is so difficult! (At least, angsty Jaime is). But I really enjoy writing his POV and he's one of my 3 favorite characters in canon, so I'm really trying to do him justice. The Myrcella bit was kind of rough, I know.
> 
> Next POV is easier: back to Robb. (Then Sansa, then a new POV).


	10. Robb VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb has a bit of a moral crisis and talks to Jon and Ned, practicing his lying skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay; this should have been done 2 days ago. My excuses, from most to least legitimate, are that 1) I've had bouts of electricity loss for a few hours a time, 2) I'm in a European city, 3) especially since I'm in a European city, the World Cup hype has really gotten to me. Subsequent chapters should come up faster, since the finals are tonight! Go Croatia :D

**ROBB VI:**

“Is something the matter, Robb?” asked Jon after a spar in the yard. Jon had won this time, as usual, though today the gap between them was wider than usual. Truthfully, Robb had been on edge since the day Father announced the incoming party of Lannisters. And despite his talk with Sansa -- perhaps in spite of it, really -- his discomfort and rage had not been quelled in the slightest.

_ Leave them alone? Damn them. I cannot do it!  _ He sharply thrust his practice sword into its scabbard, nearly knocking over all the other equipment on the stand. Groaning, he knelt down to put back the scattered swords and shields.

“Robb!” Jon shouted, sending him an insistent glance yet joining his brother in the endeavor of cleaning up after himself.

“The Lannisters,” Robb replied, “I’m worried about them coming. Especially the Kingslayer and the Imp.” 

“Father always said the Kingslayer was a very dishonorable man and far from a true knight worthy of the Kingsguard,” Jon conceded, nodding gravely. “He said the Imp was an alcoholic and had vast...appetites,” he added, reddening slightly at the last word and its implications. “I know nothing of the others.”

“The others aren’t what I worry about,” Robb muttered in reply. It was true: the Lannister cousins, from what he could remember from the war, were likely near the age of his younger siblings. They had been compliant, reasonable hostages. As for the prince, well, a boy of five could hardly be a danger. Though even as he thought that, Robb realized how wrong he was.  _ Very likely Joffrey was still quite a terror at that age. _ Still, he knew Tommen was a far cry from his older brother. “It's the Kingslayer I’m most worried about,” he confessed in a lower tone. 

“Look, Robb,” Jon responded quietly, “if it would make you feel better, we can keep an eye on him, you and me. Make sure he doesn’t hurt any of us. And he would be stupid to do so.” His brother clapped Robb on the shoulder, an earnest expression of camaraderie on his face.

It hurt to keep such a secret from him.  _ He needs to know _ , Robb thought not for the first time. He remembered when Sansa first told him of Jon’s parentage -- Robb’s immediate instinct had been to go tell Jon immediately, but his sister warned him against it. She had been right in saying that no one would believe it.

No one would believe Robb, that is.

There was only one person whose words would be understood and acknowledged on this matter.

“Jon, I think I may talk to Father about this. See if he has any other thoughts,” he remarked, his mind whirring.

“Smart; he could also have these concerns,” his brother replied, nodding, “I’ll join you?” 

_ Well, blast it. _ His brother’s eyes were opened wide, cheeks tinged with red and a sheepish look on his face. It pained Robb to see that despite the years of friendship between himself and Jon, his brother was still insecure of his status and thus unsure of his place in the household.  _ How can I refuse this face. _

“Of course, you’re always welcome,” Robb replied with a smile he hoped didn’t look too fake, turning his face away. _Gods, I’m awful at this_ _mummery_ , he thought, reminding himself to ask Sansa for help on hiding his feelings. The thought of his eldest sister reminded him of their argument two nights before, and Robb had to suppress a groan upon that recollection.

He and Jon made their way to Father’s solar, which fortunately was silent from behind the door. Knocking, the two of them creaked the door open.

“Robb? Jon? Boys, what is it,” asked their father. Though he did not look occupied at the moment, Robb could see lines of worry -- more than usual -- streak his father’s forehead.  _ He’s stressed, _ Robb thought,  _ and I can clearly see why. _

“Father, apologies for interrupting. We were talking today after the fight, and, well--” Jon began, then gesturing at Robb to convey the crux of the problem.

“We are both worried about the arrival of the Lannisters, especially the Kingslayer,” Robb summarized, watching his father’s face intently. The older man let out a long sigh, massaging his temples.

“You are not wrong to be concerned,” he finally remarked. “I had planned to keep an eye on him myself.”

“Robb and I were thinking something similar -- each of us keep an eye on the Kingslayer when we can, make sure one of us is around him all the time,” Jon supplied. Their father nodded wordlessly, his face showing no hint of surprise at the suggestion.

“Leave this task to me and Jory and a few other trusted men,” Father responded. “You are able at the sword, both of you, but this is a job for men, not boys,” he stated firmly. “I understand you want to protect your family,” he added in a softer tone, “but I want to hear no more of this talk.”

Robb nodded, nudging Jon to do the same. Truthfully, he was relieved that there would be little delay now to discuss the real topic he wanted to bring up to his father.

“Jon, I need to ask Father about some errors in the accounting books, but I can meet you in the tiltyard soon,” he spoke, turning to his brother. Jon, thankfully, got the hint and bowed out of their father’s study, closing the door behind him as father and son faced each other.

“Well, what are these errors in the accounting books, eh?” Father chuckled, seeing through the ruse immediately.  _ Blast it, I really need to get better at this _ , thought Robb with a grimace. “You are not a good liar, and thank the gods for that. It suits you to speak plainly.”

_ That’s right, I’m truly a terrible liar.  _ And that thought led him exactly to his strategy: utter frankness.

“Father, you should tell Jon about how his mother is your sister and his father is Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Silence.

Though he was already worn with the burden of the incoming party, Ned Stark looked like he had aged ten years in a single moment. His eyes, usually so calm and stoic, had grown wide with panic; his mouth slack-jawed with surprise.

“I heard you talk to her once in the crypts,” he lied, figuring it sounded plausible enough.  _ Let that be a better lie than the last _ , he pleaded,  _ or at least let Father be in such a state of shock he can't tell.  _ Fortunately, there was no increased skepticism on Father's brow, so Robb felt that was good enough lying practice for now.

“Robb, I--” his father spluttered, shaking his head vehemently. “Jon can't know,” he muttered. “I promised her no one would know--”

“But Father, I know already,” Robb stressed, “and Jon has a right to know the truth. He can keep it secret, you know he can!”  _ He’s honorable _ , Robb thought,  _ the exact copy of Father. And if Father could keep his word...Jon can, too.  _ It would be a difficult truth to take in at first, of course, but Robb was fairly sure that Jon would end up accepting it in stride. And then there would be no more painful secrets between them, and they could go back to being brothers and comrades in a way that would no longer eat at Robb’s conscience. Of course, there was the small matter of Robb and Sansa being sent back in time and keeping that hidden from the rest of their family...but somehow, Robb did not feel bad about lying about that.  _ It’s for everyone’s good _ , he thought.  _ If I can keep on believing I’m doing the honorable thing, I can keep secrets. _

Hiding Jon’s parentage from the boy in question, though, was not honorable.

His father let out a long breath, rubbing his temples again. He seemed to be calming down, processing the shocking revelation from his son with grace. Soon enough, his usual stoic expression had returned.

“Am I to take it that you will tell him if I do not?” he asked. Robb wasn't planning on doing that, but he nodded resolutely in hope that it would help his case. His father looked at him for a long moment and sighed. “Very well, I will tell him.”

_ Yes!  _ Robb couldn't help letting out a slight grin.

_ “However _ , I will wait for the departure of most of the Lannisters,” his father added solemnly. “I cannot risk them having even a slight suspicion of the truth.”

“I understand, Father,” Robb replied, once again lamenting the arrival of the Lannisters, especially so soon. All he could hope for now was that the Kingslayer and the Imp would not overstay their welcome, regardless of how Sansa had vouched for them.

Exiting his father’s solar, Robb sighed. It was time to have another conversation with his sister.

He only hoped they could reach an agreement this time.   
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, this was a bit short. In my defense, more stuff should have happened, but it ended up taking too much space and so I've split the chapter into 2. Next up: still Robb, followed by Sansa, followed by a new POV :)


	11. Robb VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb and Sansa talk and plan and weird truths come out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, RIP Croatia; that was a dumb game but France did very well. But the hype is over and now I'm back to writing regularly.

**ROBB VII:**

Sansa was sitting in her armchair, sewing together indeterminable scraps of wool. She looked up when he entered but showed no surprise at seeing him.

“Are you ready to have a civil conversation today, or will you once again slam the door in my face?” she asked casually, as if she had been simply commenting on the weather that morning.  _ She is still angry _ , Robb thought with a gulp.  _ Best just get it over with now _ . He drew in a breath as she continued her stitching.

“I told Father I knew Jon’s parentage, and he agreed to tell him,” he announced, preparing himself for a shouting match. Yet although his sister faltered in her sewing, she showed no other signs of having heard him at all. That is, not until she raised her eyes at him and fixed him with an icy stare.

“That wasn’t smart, Robb, I hope you understand why,” she said quietly, though it did not cease Robb’s discomfort. “Jon won't react well to this, and there's a chance others will discover it. Gods, even Robert Baratheon is still alive!”

“Sansa, I can't keep this a secret. He deserves to know,” Robb implored. “I know lying may come naturally to you, but I am not like that,” he added in annoyance, but he immediately regretted it as soon as he saw a flash of hurt -- fleeting, but it was there -- pass on her face.

“Lying comes naturally to me?” she replied softly, with a bitter laugh to disguise her pain. “You think I’m a natural liar, a Cersei Lannister? Robb, I learned to lie because I had to survive! There was no other way to avoid--” here she cut herself off, her face paling. 

In truth, Robb had felt bad for letting that insensitive remark fly out of his mouth. Yet what troubled him more was his sister’s reaction.  _ There is something more she isn't telling me _ , he thought.  _ Something awful. But why is she hiding it? _

The two of them were a team. They were sent back, together, to protect their family and save the realm from the impending White Walkers. She was the political mastermind, or so the gods had said, but she was still his sister. She was still his family, and she had no reason to lie about her experiences -- the two of them would make sure the same would not happen this time. He had the strangest feeling she was downplaying her fate. But why?

_ Is it for me? _

“Sansa,” he started quietly, deciding to be quite honest about his thoughts. “I know you’re not telling me something, though I cannot fathom what that is,” he continued, carefully but sincerely choosing his words. “I think you’re trying to shield me from something, something that may hurt me in some way. Please, I want to know. It doesn't have to be right now, but please, promise to tell me someday.”

There was a long silence that followed as Sansa took in the pleading words of her older brother, staring at a corner of the room away from Robb’s gaze. To his satisfaction -- though really, it could have been better -- she nodded slowly, turning her eyes towards him once more.

“Not now, not all,” she murmured. “Someday,” she added, and Robb relaxed.  _ Good enough for now. _

Back to the other matter.

“You can start by telling me why you have such a low opinion of Jon,” he said as gently as he could, “I thought you said you two were close?”

“I don’t have a low opinion of him,” she replied placidly, her brow furrowing slightly. “And yes, we were close. Far closer than I ever was with you or Arya or our younger brothers. But the revelation of his parentage was still an incredibly heavy blow even when he was older. He had an...interesting time with the dragon queen, knowing that.” Her cheeks turned slightly pink at that last statement.

“You mean they were lovers?” Robb asked, more surprised than anything. The Jon he knew now had been seriously averse to laying with women unmarried, for fear of having another bastard. It seemed that the older Jon was considerably different from what he remembered.

“Yes, though it all was quite chaotic when his true identity was revealed,” Sansa replied solemnly, though her cheeks were growing pinker still. 

“But it’s different now,” he countered. “It wouldn’t change anything, really,” he replied.  _ He would still be our brother _ , he thought, but did not say aloud. He still wasn’t convinced of Sansa’s brotherly affection for Jon.

“It would,” she sighed, but her gaze was relenting. “Though I suppose it could have been far worse. He could have met the dragon queen first,” she added, though her tone said otherwise.

“What is it with you and Jon, anyway?” Robb asked. “I thought you would have at least started treating him like a brother since you got back.” He expected her to look a bit ashamed, to show guilt at distancing herself from Jon. 

What he didn’t expect was...blushing.

_ What? _

“It’s...difficult for me to treat him like a brother,” she responded carefully. “Not while I still have all these memories so vividly stored in my head,” she added, her blush deepening.

_ What? _

_ No way. They wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t… _

“You didn’t...lie together, did you?” he spluttered, almost not truly wanting to hear the response.

Her cheeks, if possible, turned even redder.

“Oh gods,” he breathed. “Oh gods, why did I even...I don’t want to imagine...he’s our brother!” he finally spat out, more horrified than angry.

“We never had a sibling bond,” Sansa countered, her blush starting to fade to an expression of annoyance. “Not like you or Arya did. And either way, we were cousins, and related further away than aunt and nephew!”

Robb grimaced, mind still reeling. Hearing about this was somehow more uncomfortable than learning about Jon’s true identity, or perhaps even noting the incoming Lannisters.

“No more talking about this,” he finally said, his sister nodding earnestly.  _ She may feel even more queasy than I do _ . 

“Let’s change the subject,” she agreed. “Are you ready to talk about the Lannisters this time?”

Robb sighed. He was calm enough now that he would be able to talk without yelling or slamming doors, but neither was he looking forward to this conversation.

_ But it needs to happen -- for our family’s sake. _

“I suppose we must,” he finally conceded. “I may allow that the Imp is not truly a monster or a threat to our family, but I cannot ignore the Kingslayer’s transgressions.”

“We won’t ignore them,” she responded. “We won’t ignore them, but we won’t criminalize him because he has not done anything. Without Cersei, he won’t throw Bran off the tower. And we’ll make sure that Mother doesn’t take Tyrion this time, so that he won’t fight and injure Father’s men. Would you harm an innocent?” she asked, her voice rising somewhat. “It’s not right to judge him for crimes he hasn’t yet committed, Robb. It’s not honorable.”

She stressed that last word, gaze boring into Robb’s eyes.  _ Of course, we’re Starks _ , he thought.  _ Our father is the most honorable man in Westeros _ . And truth be told, she had a point, though he would hardly admit that out loud so soon. He could not in good conscience denounce the Kingslayer for transgressions that he had not made.  _ But I can’t just wait for something to happen...I have to prevent it. _

“Father, Jon and I plan to keep a careful watch on him when he arrives,” he told Sansa. Her eyebrows rose slightly, but otherwise she did not seem too surprised. “He may not have done anything yet, but I won’t just sit back as he tries to harm our family.”

“That’s smart of you, as long as you all aren’t too obvious about it. But I assure you, he won’t,” she replied confidently. “I know you can hardly believe me, but he won’t. All I ask is that you remain polite around him when he’s here,” she pleaded. “I’ll do the rest.”

“The rest?” Robb questioned. His sister merely sent him an encouraging smile.

“Just a conversation,” she reassured him cryptically. “Either way, like you, I do hope they leave soon. We have plans to set in motion.”

“What kind of plans?” he asked. Suddenly he was growing more and more uneasy about Sansa’s schemes. 

“Well, you actually had thought of the first one,” she replied, eyes twinkling. “Keep Domeric Bolton alive.”

“You’re right. Does this mean it’s near time to call Alys Karstark and the Manderlys?” he asked. Though he had come to terms with the inevitability that was a marriage pact for political reasons, he was not exactly looking forward to it yet.

“Not exactly,” she responded. “If we simply summon him after he is knighted, he could still make a detour to find his brother, and then where would we be. No, we will need to try a more direct approach,” she mused. “But we also have another goal: delay the death of Jon Arryn.”

“It was our aunt who poisoned him, no? Then if we just separate them, it should be sufficient,” Robb responded. But he felt he could see where Sansa was going with this…

“For now, yes,” she agreed. “Petyr Baelish will think up some other scheme to kill him and frame it on the Lannisters, but for now, getting Lysa away should be sufficient,” she added. “And it just so happens that Sweetrobin’s fifth nameday is just in a couple moons.”

The important part was left unsaid.

_ We need to visit the Vale. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well well well look what we have here! Seems like the Vale is where shit's going to go down soon! 
> 
> EDIT: I forgot to clarify a couple things. Jonsa, while it happened in the past life, will NOT be happening this time around...see my comment a few chapters back on the no cousin incest! Also, Domeric is right now also in the Vale, which is partially how Robb comes to that conclusion.
> 
> Next chapter: Sansa. And then a new Lannister POV...


	12. Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa talks to her mother about a trip to the Vale, gets more brownie points with Arya, and welcomes the Lannisters and all the memories they bring with them.

**SANSA II:**

“Sweetling, what are you sewing over there?” her mother asked. Septa Mordane’s lessons for the day had finished with Lady Stark coming in to check in on her two daughters, though Arya had scampered off fairly quickly -- to the tiltyard, no doubt. Now that the septa had gone, it was just Sansa and her mother, sitting together in companionable peace and quiet.

“It’s a handkerchief,” Sansa answered, handing over her work in progress. She had only so far barely outlined the white moon on the blue fabric, but it would be complete soon.  _ Good, now I’ll begin. _

“Sansa, this white circle...are you embroidering the sigil of House Arryn?” her mother asked, a bit surprised.

“I thought to give it to my cousin for his nameday,” she replied gently. “It would be very nice to meet him,” she added. Her mother’s eyes sparkled at the first statement, but her expression grew a bit pained at the second.

“Oh, sweetling,” she sighed. “You know that your cousin is all the way in King’s Landing. It’s a long trip, and not one I think your father would approve of,” she explained. 

_ Gods, I’m an idiot _ , thought Sansa, though she didn’t let it show on her face.  _ I forgot they’d still be in King’s Landing.  _ But then another thought struck her.

“But isn’t Lord Arryn the Lord of the Vale? Shouldn’t his family visit sometime?” she asked, feigning confusion.  _ Let’s add one more.  _ “What kind of lord doesn’t even see the people he rules?” she murmured with feigned melancholy, adding a bit of a pout for good measure. “Surely Lord Arryn and his family must be at their castle at least once a year.”

Catelyn Stark sighed, sending a tight-lipped, tired smile at her eldest daughter, but Sansa could see her mind whirring. 

“I will write to your Aunt Lysa to see if such a trip is amenable to her and her son,” she relented. “It would be good to see her again, after so many years.”

_ Good,  _ thought Sansa, a small but satisfied smile on her lips. Yet she knew her mother’s promise would not be enough.

“Perhaps if Father wrote to Lord Arryn to see if he could come as well? It would be so good of him to see his friend,” Sansa suggested meekly.

“You thought well, sweetling,” her mother replied, smoothly stroking Sansa’s hair. “I will tell him of our plan, for I like it. Gods know he will need some sort of diversion from the Lannisters,” she added, the last sentence more for herself than for Sansa’s ears.

_ I’ll pretend that flew past my head _ , Sansa thought. Though from the calm expression on her mother’s face, she could tell that her mother did not harbor the same resentment for the Lannisters that her father did. There was distrust and general guardedness, yes, but not bitter dislike.  _ I can work with that _ , she brightened.  _ Influencing Mother would definitely influence Father greatly _ .

“Thank you, Mother,” she exclaimed. “Oh, it will be such a great adventure! I hear there are many famous knights in the Vale. Will we meet them at all?” 

“Now, now, sweetling. I must bring this up with your father first,” Mother chided gently, chuckling. The two of them soon returned to their needlework as Sansa continued to embroider the bright blue handkerchief. She had finished most of the outline of the falcon’s left wing when the thud of a door being pushed open jolted her from her task.

“Arya, what have I told you about--” Mother began.

“The Lannisters are coming!” her little sister announced, panting. The two embroiderers shot straight up from their seats.

“Arya, go quickly tell whatever family you have not yet found and then you must be bathed,” Mother ordered, immediately shifting into the commanding presence of Lady Stark. “Sansa, go ask Sarra to do your hair, put on a finer dress, and find something suitable for your sister that she will concede to wear,” she added, both girls nodding and dashing out of the room. “Quickly, now, quickly!”

Sansa sped into her room, summoning her maid along the way. While the servant woman plaited her hair into a simpler version of a Southron style she had enjoyed in her childhood, Sansa mentally sorted clothing options for both herself and Arya. It was lucky that she had finished a silver lambswool tunic for her sister the other day -- it would probably be a working compromise between a fine dress and her usual shirts and breeches. For herself, Sansa selected a blue dress of similar fabric that had been lined with silver ribbon. With Sarra’s help, she laced herself into the dress and added a direwolf brooch on her left side.  _ So no one forgets I’m a wolf, not a fish. _

Sweeping up her sister’s clothes in her arms, Sansa hurried to Arya’s room and dropped it onto her sister’s bed. Arya, who was nearly done bathing, noticed the clothes and frowned.

“I don’t want to wear a dress!” she cried.

“Well, you’re fortunate that this is not a dress,” her sister replied.  _ Thank the gods I finished this in time.  _ Arya sent her a confused glance as she stepped out of the bath and rubbed a towel over her body. “Now come on, get dressed.” Drying herself up, the younger girl walked over to the bed to see the clothing.

“Sansa, this is...this is so nice,” she breathed. “It’s not a dress, but it’s...it’s…”

“Let’s take a look,” Sansa encouraged. Arya fingered the fabric gently, slowly pulling it over her head with great care -- or, at least, great care for an eight-year-old boyish girl.  _ Good,  _ Sansa thought, proud of her handiwork.  _ All those years of needlework and watching courtly fashions do pay off sometimes _ . The silver of the fabric did something magical to make her sister’s grey eyes shine brightly, and the sleeves and torso were well-fitted to her small frame. 

“It really does suit you,” Sansa said. Arya simply looked at herself in the mirror, stunned. “You look pretty.”

“Pretty?” the young girl whispered. “But it’s not a dress, and I’m not a good lady. Pretty, Sansa?”

“You are, and you don’t even have to wear a dress,” Sansa remarked, thinking of Brienne of Tarth or Obara Sand or any of the Mormont sisters she had met -- all who fought bravely in the war against the Others.

“Thank you,” Arya murmured. “You’ve been a much better sister recently.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” her older sister replied with a snort. “Now, let’s get to the courtyard.”

It turned out that nearly all of their family was present in the courtyard already, though the main highborns of the party had yet to enter the castle. Wordlessly, Sansa strode over to stand beside Robb, whose gaze was stormy as expected, but tempered. She gently squeezed his forearm to reassure him.  _ He and I are the only ones who know what’s at stake. _

It was not long before the Kingsguard rode in. Sansa held her breath, peering closely at their faces.  _ Ser Arys and Ser Balon _ , she noted with relief _.  _ None of this party of Kingsguard had been one to take pleasure in hitting her in King’s Landing.  _ No Ser Meryn or Ser Boros, thank the gods.  _ Yet with a touch of dismay, she saw that Sandor Clegane -- her favorite member of the Kingsguard, her protector at her worst times in King’s Landing -- was not in the party.

But, she was at least glad that none of those who had come enjoyed beating little girls.

Suddenly, she felt Robb tense beside her, his eyes determinedly set on the last of the Kingsguard. Sansa followed his gaze, and sure enough, he was staring at the Kingslayer with...moderately veiled dislike, to put it lightly. 

Jaime Lannister was the last of the Kingsguard to enter, riding just in front of an ornate wheelhouse, his face full of displeasure and condescension.  _ Gods, I nearly forgot how conceited he was once.  _ Of course, he still had his swordhand, and his relationship with his sister was still strong.  _ He’s going to be difficult to work with _ , she thought with a sigh, remembering his early transgressions against her father and Bran. But then she recalled how he had entered her service at Winterfell with his whole army following suit, how he had saved her and Rickon from a wight attack, how he and his brother helped her younger siblings voyage to Essos, and she smiled. Turning to her distraught older brother, she nodded in understanding and squeezed his arm.  _ He has more right to be upset _ , she thought,  _ but he is doing well for now. _

The doors of the wheelhouse that followed opened, and out came a barrage of blond Lannisters. First was Tommen -- sweet Tommen, small and round and soft as he had been before -- who was followed by another Lannister-looking boy, this one about Sansa’s age.  _ That must be one of the young cousins _ , she noted.  _ Not Lancel -- Martyn? Tyrek?  _ Whoever it was, the boy, whose face was strangely turning bright red, could not truly be a threat to the family.

When the next figure stepped out, Sansa’s breath nearly caught in her throat.  _ Myrcella _ , she thought, examining the young golden girl before her.  _ What is she doing here?  _ Sansa turned to Robb and then to her parents, but they seemed equally perplexed -- indeed, Sansa thought she was hiding her confusion rather well in comparison. She could have sworn she saw Robb’s cheeks turn pink for a moment, though she didn’t think much of it.  _ The young princess is quite beautiful _ , she thought.  _ And intelligent, if her eyes are anything to go by _ . Most importantly, though, Sansa could not find any malice in her expression. She would be wary of Myrcella, but it would be safe to befriend her for now.

Last to exit the contraption was Tyrion. Of all the Lannisters, it was he who was the least changed in appearance from her memory. He was just as hideous, and his mismatched eyes sparkled with wit as they did before. Sansa had been grateful of course for the little kindness -- perhaps, more like decency -- he had shown her in King’s Landing, but he had gone down a dark path since then. She had met him again later, far later, after Aegon the Blackfyre pretender had burned in the flames of the dragon queen. He had been different then, his hate for the entire world not bothering to hide itself behind a mask of self-deprecating humor.  _ It was murdering his father that did it _ , she had thought then.  _ And perhaps that revelation from Jaime...I will not let him go down that path.  _ Not this time.

The wheelhouse was followed by one more golden-haired rider trotting through the gates. It was a boy of near thirteen or fourteen, with a handsome face and a haughty expression that Sansa recalled all too well.

_ Joffrey.  _

_ No. No! He wasn't supposed to come!  _

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked at Robb, panicked.  _ No, he's a monster, no, no!  _ How was she supposed to deal with--

_ Wait a minute. _ She gazed at the Lannister rider once more as his horse rode closer to the rest of the party. 

_ It's not him. _

His golden hair was a tad lighter and less curly, his features were softer and more expressive, but most importantly, the expression in his green eyes, though full of pride and disdain, was not cruel. It must have been another cousin...near Robb’s age... _it must be Lancel_ , she realized _._ _So this is what he looked like once._ It was hard to reconcile the young, comely boy before her with the emaciated, skeletal creature that had suffered at Blackwater. _He’s still in his arrogant, unkind phase_ , she noted. _But he’s young and redeemable yet_. As was the case with Jaime, simply keeping Lancel away from Cersei would work wonders.

“I thought it was  _ him _ , but it isn’t” she murmured to Robb, who nodded and gave her a reassuring smile.

“This will work,” he replied in a strained whisper, as if he was convincing himself more than her.

_ This will work _ , she breathed to herself.  _ This would work. _

It was time to truly welcome the Lannisters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one difficult thing about writing Sansa is deciding how much of the alternate/after ADWD route to divulge. Thus, I always have to limit her thoughts so that the information slowly trickles out instead of coming in one huge flood. We have seen quite a lot of her thoughts on the Lannisters so far, but what opinions do you think she may have about fAegon or Dany?
> 
> Also, did you also have a Joffrey scare?
> 
> Next few chapters: a slew of new POVs (yes, Tyrion included, but not immediately).


	13. Lancel I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancel's thoughts on the journey, the Starks. Then, some quality time with the heir to Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been two weeks...yikes. I’m sorry…(In my defense I spent a lot of this time traveling around without electricity/internet, so…). Anyway, this one’s a bit longer to make up for my absence.
> 
> So I’ve gotten a few questions about people’s ages/the current timeline. Right now, it’s about 297 AD, a bit more than a year before the start of the events of AGOT. The kids’ ages right now are roughly:  
> Robb -- 13/14, Sansa -- 10/11, Arya -- 8/9, Bran -- 6/7, Rickon -- 1/2  
> Lancel -- 14/15, Tyrek -- 10/11, Myrcella -- 9/10 (remember, aged up 3 years), Tommen -- 5/6
> 
> Also, I had one commenter point out that since there was that hint of past Jonsa a couple chapters ago, the “no incest” tag doesn’t apply. I’ve thought about it, and since Jaime/Cersei is still here because...canon, I’ve decided to remove it. Regardless of the tags though, incest in this fic will not turn out well -- it will never be glorified.

**LANCEL I:**

Finally, he could see a castle.

_ Seven hells, how long had it been? And how could anyone stand this cold? _

He recalled the moment in King’s Landing when Cousin Jaime had called him and Tyrek over to tell them they were done paging for the king.  _ Thank the gods _ , he had thought,  _ probably that beating did it.  _ His joy was fleeting, though, when the next announcement came: they were to leave with Cousin Jaime to help escort Prince Tommen to Winterfell, the seat of House Stark.

House Stark of the  _ North. _

Why they were traveling all the way up to that dreary kingdom of backwards people, Lancel had no idea. Cousin Jaime did not look very happy about it all either, and Lancel noticed that his cousin had a particular disdain for Lord Stark in particular when he spoke.  _ The king’s best friend,  _ he thought,  _ or at least that’s what Cousin Jaime claims _ . But if the best friend was anything like the king, well, Lancel could understand why Jaime hated him so much.

Tyrek, on the other hand, had been ecstatic at the prospect of escaping the services of the oaf king -- at least, that’s what Cousin Jaime called him whenever he thought no one was around, and Lancel agreed with the sentiment. His younger cousin had thought this trip to be a great adventure, but that was because he had not learned any of its history. Lancel knew better, though -- there were no tourneys or even knights, weirwoods for primitive gods instead of civilized septs, and seven hells, there were parts of the North that celebrated cannibalism!

The last-minute members of their party were a surprise. Cousin Tyrion was largely an unwelcome one, as he was ugly and his mismatched eyes always glittered with disdain for everything around him. But the worst part really was all the mind games Tyrion would play on him, as if the dwarf enjoyed mocking Lancel at every turn.  _ He’s a Lannister who shows no respect for his family _ . It was really only Cousin Jaime that Tyrion seemed to like, or rather, hate less than everyone else.

Princess Myrcella was a welcome addition, however. Though they were not very close, Lancel liked her, as she often made for good conversation whenever they could have it. Yet her presence on the trip was overshadowed -- in Lancel’s honest opinion -- by her sworn shield, Ser Arys Oakheart. The Kingsguard was an honorable knight, much like Cousin Jaime, and Lancel had anticipated asking him many questions about what knighthood was like. Of course, Cousin Jaime also knew the answers to that, but he had always scowled and evaded replying whenever Lancel would try to ask him. And if asking Ser Arys wouldn’t work, well, Lancel would try Ser Balon, though as the newest member of the Kingsguard, Lancel was not very well acquainted with him.

It was for this reason that Lancel spent the majority of the trip on horseback with Cousin Jaime and the other knights instead of in the wheelhouse. Yes, he would be away from Tyrek and Myrcella, but the presence of Cousin Tyrion would be enough to deter Lancel from their company. Unfortunately, Lancel had not accounted for several of the challenges of riding.

First, there was the simple fact that sitting on a saddle from dawn to dusk was far less convenient than lying on comfortable cushions, however stifling they may be. Yet this discomfort was accentuated by Lancel’s boredom, for to his dismay, none of the three Kingsguard were eager conversation partners. He could understand Cousin Jaime’s annoyance and attributed it to the insolent remarks Lancel had made the day he was beaten bloody -- remarks that he cringed to remember, for he usually left them for those more deserving of his taunts, but despite his regrets, he was far too proud to actually apologize. He was a Lannister, after all, and well aware that pride was one of his biggest failings. But even when Lancel tried to talk to the other two Kingsguard, they had engaged him for hardly ten minutes before succumbing to reticence for the rest of the journey.

Yet though the travel had hardly been pleasant from the start, it had only grown worse as they rode further and further up the Kingsroad. For Lancel had forgotten one obvious truth: the North was bitterly cold.  _ Riding was a stupid decision _ , he had thought to himself every few minutes. But then he would look at the unwavering endurance of his golden cousin and think of the mocking laughs of the dwarf and -- most of all -- remember his pride, and he would straighten his back and continue on for a few minutes more.

But now the journey was finally over, as he could see a castle.

Though no building could be as impressive as Casterly Rock, Lancel had to grudgingly admit that the Northmen had indeed constructed a fortress of comparable majesty. Winterfell’s turrets may not have been as high as those of his family’s home, but they were solid and sturdy -- they had clearly withstood the test of time. As he marveled at the sight before him, even forgetting the bitter chill, the front gate slowly creaked open to welcome their party.

Lancel rode in tentatively, behind the wheelhouse. He could not deny he had begun to hold a certain curiosity for these bizarre, barbaric people, but his fear outweighed it still. Yet as he entered through the gate into a wide, snowy courtyard, he felt a strange combination of relief and disappointment, for the Starks were underwhelmingly normal-looking.

Yes, he supposed their clothes were not nearly as fine as those of the capital’s court, but beyond that, their faces did not look at all like those of the savage beings he had conjured in his imagination.  _ Lady Stark is from the Riverlands _ , he remembered with a jolt, glancing at her auburn-haired and blue-eyed complexion that did not even hold a hint of cannibalism. Nearly all of her children had inherited their mother’s looks -- all but their second daughter -- and the eldest daughter’s dress indicated that she would nearly belong in King’s Landing or the court of another Southron lord. 

But even Lord Stark, with his serious, measured expression, looked far more ordinary than Lancel had expected. His dark brown beard, peppered with streaks of grey, was trimmed neatly; his gray eyes reflected only civility and even kindness -- that is, but for a flash of disdain when he shook hands with Cousin Jaime. 

In the end, the offer of hospitality was made and the older Stark daughter led him and Tyrek to their quarters. The girl was a perfectly polite hostess, yet though she offered only platitudes in her speech that Lancel readily ignored, he noticed his younger cousin was hanging onto the girl’s every word, eyes wide and cheeks pink. Eventually, they arrived at their chambers, but before Lancel could have a moment of peace, he was accosted by his younger cousin.

“That was the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” gasped Tyrek, his face no less flushed than a moment before. “Do you think Lady Sansa will want to marry me?”

“Hmm,” Lancel grunted in reply. “Maybe, I don’t know. You shouldn’t think too much on it.”

“Oh, Lancel, you sound as if you hadn’t actually looked at her!” his cousin replied in annoyance. “Tell me she isn’t one of the prettiest ladies you’ve ever met!”

“Hmm, I don’t know, I didn’t pay attention,” Lancel muttered. To tell the truth, he had hardly spared any of the Stark children more than a cursory glance. His idea of the pinnacle of beauty was an adult woman, not a young girl -- hair like liquid gold, emerald eyes, and facial features straight out of a painting.  _ She’s married, though _ , he reminded himself as he plopped himself down on his new bed and promptly fell asleep.

He was not sure what time of day it was when he awoke, refreshed.  _ I must have slept for a long time _ . Glancing to his right, he saw Tyrek still asleep in his bed, buried under a layer of furs.

Furs...the North.  _ That’s right _ , he recalled with a slight groan, his memory returning to him. He got up from his bed to go take a much needed bath, but there was something amiss that he couldn’t quite discern.

_ It’s warm,  _ he realized.  _ Warmer than the entire rest of the North _ . Indeed, though it was not quite as hot as King’s Landing, Lancel felt it was about the same temperature as his quarters at Casterly Rock had been.  _ I suppose the Starks really are quite normal.  _ He had hardly opened the door to look around for a servant when one found him and immediately drew up a bath upon request. 

Not long after having soaked in a steamy tub -- again, how was it possible to be so warm in such a freezing place? -- Lancel dressed, choosing his typical crimson doublet.  _ They may be more civilized than expected, but I am still a Lannister _ , he thought, standing up a bit straighter. It was quiet in the castle, so Lancel decided to explore, following the low hum of voices and weapons clashing. To his relief, he could see daylight seep in through some of the windows. Yet as it was, even with the sun's help, the fortress was nearly a labyrinth, as it took him nearly ten tries to find an exit into the outdoors.

It was instantaneous, the way the frozen winds of the morning accosted him as he stepped into the courtyard. Hugging his arms, Lancel almost regretted not having put a fur on top of his shoulders. Almost.  _ I am a Lannister _ , he thought to himself, willing the frigid air away as he often did on his journey here. And he knew there was only one simple way to warm up in the bitter cold.

Turning to his right, he noticed two boys near his own age sparring intently under the watch of a fat man with a white beard who would have reminded him of Robert if not for the solemn expression on his face. The boy with fairer hair Lancel recognized as the heir to Winterfell himself, but he could not identify the dark-haired, Stark-looking one.  _ Perhaps a bastard,  _ he guessed, noting the boy’s strong resemblance to Lord Stark. But that hypothesis raised more questions than it answered -- why would Lord Stark’s bastard be raised next to his trueborn children? And why would the Stark heir spend time with his lowborn half-sibling? 

The match before him suddenly grew in intensity as the old knight roared on for the boys to finish. For a moment, it looked as though the bastard boy was about to win as he pressed the Stark heir further and further back, but at the last minute, the heir made a sort of side-stepping trick and disarmed his opponent. Lancel couldn't help but clap, relieved that the natural order of things had not been broken. The noise caught the eye of the victor, who, after graciously shaking hands with the bastard, approached Lancel himself.

“You must be one of the Lannister cousins,” the boy began, his face as civil as his father’s had been the day before, though Lancel didn't exactly detect...amiability. Though he was perhaps a smidgen shorter than Lancel, the Stark heir was stockier and distinctly stronger looking.  _ Why did I forget his name,  _ Lancel inwardly groaned.

“I am. Lancel Lannister, Lord…” he replied, leaving his ignorance out in the open.

“Robb,” the heir finished. “I hope you had a pleasant journey, Lord Lancel,” he added, and Lancel could tell he was attempting to add a bit of friendliness to his tone.

“Thank you,” Lancel replied in earnest. “It was colder than I am used to, but it went well. If I may ask, how is it that the castle is so warm in this frozen land?”

“Ah, that,” Robb Stark remarked with a chuckle -- the first sincere response Lancel had gotten from him. “Winterfell is built in the midst of hot springs, which heat the castle and help keep our crops growing despite the snows. Have you been to the glass gardens?” 

“No, I can’t say I have,” Lancel responded, taking in this information.  _ It made sense _ , he thought,  _ so this is how a lady from the South could live here _ . “Where are they?”

“They’re joined to the castle,” the Stark heir replied. “My sister Sansa frequents them the most of our siblings, and you would be more than welcome to join her.”

“Sansa?” Lancel asked.  _ Seven hells, why didn’t I learn their names yesterday?  _ But then a thought came to him. “Is that the older one?”

“Yes, the younger one is Arya,” Robb replied. “My younger brother is called Brandon -- or Bran, for short -- and the babe’s name is Rickon,” he added, fixing Lancel with a bit of a stern gaze that made him blush in embarrassment.

“Lord Robb, my apologies. I was simply too tired to remember all your names,” Lancel responded, trying to remedy the situation.  _ A bit of flattery would help _ , he thought, thinking of his cousins. “Besides, I was distracted by the snow and the majesty of this castle to truly pay attention,” he added, not technically lying at all. Lancel saw Robb Stark’s face thaw a bit at the last point, so he decided not to dwell on this point and bring up his request. “But about the glass gardens, would your sister permit my cousin Tyrek to join as well?”

“I’m sure she would be happy to take both of you,” the Stark heir responded pleasantly, his eyes studying Lancel’s facial expression, searching for falseness. “She is likely in embroidery lessons with the princess right now, so in the meantime, Lord Lancel, would you care to spar?”

Lancel gulped. He had seen the way Robb Stark fought, and he had to admit, it was quite impressive. With that, as well as the simple truth that he was out of practice and exhausted from the trip, he did not think he could beat the Stark heir.  _ Lions don’t bow to anyone, not even wolves _ , he thought to himself, fingering his crimson doublet. And exercising was, still, the only way he could think of to dispel the cold. 

“All right,” he finally agreed.

Carefully, Lancel turned to the assortment of weapons near him. He found a practice sword and shield that seemed similar in weight and dimension to what he used in King’s Landing, made some practice swings that he had seen Cousin Jaime use, and readied himself for the challenge. 

Whatever he may have expected, Lord Robb did not go easy on him, even from the start. The Stark heir sent blow after blow, and the force behind each strike did not diminish in the slightest. Though the two seemed near-evenly matched in strength at first, Lancel could feel his fading away rather quickly. Eventually, his stamina simply gave out, and the blade in his hand clattered to the ground.

“You must be still tired from your journey,” Robb remarked diplomatically. “You fight well. Did the King train you?” he asked, studying Lancel cautiously.

Lancel knew how he should have answered. He knew that Lord Stark was close friends with Robert Baratheon. He knew...but he could not help it.

He laughed bitterly.

“The King does not concern himself with that,” he spat, unable to contain his anger. “I train with my cousin Tyrek, or by copying Cousin Jaime’s movements -- not the King. He likes whores and wine and stuffing food into his fat belly, and he doesn’t fight well.”

“I see. That’s unfortunate,” replied Robb after a moment, his face serious. 

“You believe me?” Lancel spluttered in amazement. “But it’s your father’s best friend I’m talking about. You really believe me?”

“It’s been nearly eight years since my father’s laid eyes on the King,” Robb began. “My younger sister was barely a babe, and I no older than my brother Bran is now. A lot can happen in eight years…” he trailed off. “Your cousin Tyrek’s word would help, but so far, yes, I do believe you. Now, I assume you wouldn’t like to lose practice with the sword?” he asked, Lancel nodding mutely, still a bit too surprised to speak. “My brother Jon and I often spar under Ser Rodrick’s guidance in the mornings around this time. Would you care to join us?”

“Jon?” Lancel asked, still collecting all his thoughts about Robb Stark. “Is that the bastard?”

“Bastard or not, he’s my brother,” the Stark heir replied sharply, for the first time allowing a touch of hostility in his face and manners. “And though I won today, he’s better at the sword than I.”

“I see,” Lancel replied, much in the same tone that Robb had used earlier. “I have brothers myself,” he added in an attempt at diplomacy.  _ Though I’m not as close to them as you are _ , he thought with not a little envy. In truth, Tyrek was more of a brother to him than his true ones -- Martyn and Willem were at Casterly Rock for all the years Lancel was left in King’s Landing, and he barely knew them.

But still, he could not help but marvel at Lord Stark. To bring a bastard into his home, clothe him and feed him and bring him up among all his trueborn children and in the presence of his wife...Lancel wondered what it would be like for Cousin Cersei to live with such a bastard, a bastard of her fat, drunk, boorish, oaf of a husband…

“Don’t you feel sorry for your mother?” he finally asked.

“I...what?” Robb replied, the iciness gone for a minute as he was clearly taken aback. “I suppose,” he conceded, his brow furrowing for a moment before the frozen demeanor returned. “But still, that’s not Jon’s fault.”

“It may not be his fault,” Lancel agreed, “but bastards are bastards, while you are the trueborn heir--”

“What does that matter?” the Stark heir responded in anger, not bothering to mask it under civility any longer. “Just because I was born to married, noble parents does not make me a good person, and just because Jon was born out of wedlock doesn’t make him less good than I. You said it yourself -- just because Robert Baratheon is the King doesn’t mean he is a good person. It’s the same thing.”

“I--” Lancel began, but words in his defense just wouldn’t come to his tongue. 

“I must find my brother,” Robb Stark remarked curtly, his anger simmering down into cool detachment. “You are free to join us in the morning if you wish. Good day, Lord Lancel,” he added, storming off without delay.

“Good day,” Lancel responded, though he was sure the words wouldn’t reach him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, either Sansa or Catelyn; haven’t decided which.


	14. Sansa III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has a chat with Myrcella, then Robb.

**SANSA III:**

"Lady Arya, where have you run off to now?" shrieked Septa Mordane upon witnessing the absence of the girl in question from the daily embroidery lesson. "By the Seven, I shall tie you to the stool! Lady Arya!"

The moment the cries of her Septa could no longer be heard from the corridors, Sansa nearly sighed in contentment. Her younger sister's tendency to run off in the middle of their lessons was a habit that needed to be remedied, but Sansa was, for once, glad of the distraction, as it helped facilitate one of her goals.

She could finally talk to the Princess -- alone.

"Will your Septa not require assistance in searching for your sister?" the Princess asked, her neutral words failing to hide her anticipation. Glancing down, Sansa noticed that the golden-haired girl's stitches were not too much better than that of her escaped sister's.  _ No doubt she is tired of spending time with Septa Mordane, _ she thought.  _ I can't really blame her _ .

"Let her search. There is hardly more that we can do," Sansa responded. Nonetheless, she gingerly set her embroidery down and moved to sit in a more comfortable chair. "But perhaps the two of us can have a talk? Unless you wish to do something else, Princess."

"That would be nice," the younger girl agreed, setting her embroidery down in a more hasty manner, her eyes alight.  _ She's traveled with no women but a couple of her handmaidens,  _ Sansa realized suddenly.  _ Doubtless she itches for some sort of female companionship. _

"When we got the news that a party from King's Landing were to arrive, your name was not mentioned," Sansa began. "While it is a pleasant surprise for your Grace to visit us, would it be possible to inquire as to the circumstances or reasoning for your journey?" It was an understandable question, and the impassivity on Myrcella's face meant she had fully expected such. 

"I have always been curious about the other kingdoms, especially those so far away from my homeland," the younger girl replied airily. "Moreover, Tommen and Tyrek are some of my closest playmates, and I did not want to be lonely without them in King's Landing," she added. 

_ There. There it is. I can expand on this… _

"Your Grace, if I may ask, I believe the Crown Prince is near Tyrek's age as well. Do you not manage to spend much time with him at all?" Sansa asked as innocuously as she could. The Princess's face remained serene, but Sansa caught a flicker of worry and fear -- near imperceptible; it would have gone unnoticed if no one was looking for it.

Not Sansa, though.

"He spends much of his time with my mother, the Queen, learning his duties as the future King of Westeros," Myrcella responded, a pained smile on her face that could almost be real. "You must understand, my brother is to be the most powerful man on the continent. His tasks will be great and numerous."

_ She is threatening me _ , thought Sansa. Why else would the girl remind her of the power of her closest relations?  _ I must distract her in some way, I must know what her stance is… _

An idea emerged.

Sansa thought intensely of Ser Waymar Royce, an image that never failed to make her blush, even when all her girlish dreams of knights and princes had been destroyed. She twirled her fingers together in an image of nervousness, looking demurely down at her fidgeting hands. 

"I apologise for the intrusiveness. I was merely...curious about the Crown Prince," she murmured, blushing harder as the portrait of the Vale knight seeped through her mind. She twirled a lock of hair, daintily pressing it behind her ear. "You see, I heard he was handsome and kind, a perfect golden prince."

The younger girl stared at her blankly, though her eyes betrayed the brewing conflict in her mind. Finally, Myrcella’s face settled into a picture of serenity as she formulated a reply.

"Joffrey is a handsome, golden prince," she told the older girl, a small smile on her face. "but Rhaegar Targaryen was a handsome, silver prince, and he did terrible things to your aunt. Appearances can be deceiving, Lady Sansa. Perhaps you could meet my brother and form your own opinion on him."

_ Nice. _

_ Very nice, Princess, _ thought Sansa, barely suppressing a smile.  _ You would make a valuable friend, you minx. _ Of course, the girl could have responded in the affirmative and peacefully gone on with her life, but instead... _ she is kinder and more loyal than Margaery Tyrell, that is for certain. _

"Thank you for your wise words, Princess," Sansa replied earnestly. "I was wondering, have you seen the glass gardens in Winterfell? If not, would you care--" she began, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. Glancing at the Princess for a moment, who nodded slightly in consent, she spoke. "Come in."

While Sansa was fully prepared for a servant to have entered just then, or maybe even Septa Mordane or Arya, returned from their chase, she was definitely not expecting her older brother.

"Robb, what are you doing here?" she asked, genuinely curious. But her brother's attention was not on her, but rather on her golden-haired companion.

"Princess, apologies for the intrusion," he stammered, his cheeks slightly pink. While the Princess was certainly a beautiful girl -- a girl who was definitely in the throes of womanhood already, though it was early for her age -- Sansa couldn't help but roll her eyes a little at his admiration.

"It was no intrusion at all," replied Myrcella in a tone considerably more...airy than she had used with Sansa, adding a brilliant smile. "Your sister was just asking me if I had seen the glass gardens here at Winterfell."

"Oh, the glass gardens. That's right, Sansa, I was speaking to Lord Lancel earlier -- would you be kind enough to show them to him sometime later today?" Robb asked, turning back to his sister.

"Of course," she agreed pleasantly. Lancel was not an issue, or at least, a mild one compared to his relatives, but she sensed her brother had more to speak about on the subject in private, so she let it go for now.

"And I think he requested if you would be able to take his cousin Tyrek as well?" Robb added. "If that's alright with you."

"That's absolutely fine, Robb," she responded calmly, though she was honestly suppressing another eye roll. It was not a secret to Sansa that the younger Lannister cousin was somewhat besotted with her, and judging from Lancel's request, it was no secret to anyone at all, really.

But she had another idea in mind.

"I was going to invite the Princess to join us," she added, turning to the younger girl. "Your Grace, would you like me to take you?"

"Nothing could please me more, Lady Sansa," Myrcella responded lightly, sending the older girl another smile meant to dazzle. "When will we plan the trip?"

"Let's see," Sansa thought. She knew she had to make time for a private talk with her older brother, so she would add ample time for that. "I will be taking the midday meal with my brother and my mother, as we had planned to look at the ledgers for our family expenses. Perhaps after that, in an hour or two?"

"That would be agreeable," replied the Princess, eyeing Robb with her peripheral vision.

_ I need to confirm that, _ Sansa thought, holding back a huff.  _ If she has designs on Robb… _

"Robb, you will join us?" she asked firmly, sending him a meaningful look. "It would be so kind of you."  _ Please say yes, please say yes, I need to know… _

"With pleasure," he replied, brow furrowed in a bit of confusion. "Now, sister, I came here because Mother is asking us to join her in her study..."

"Of course," Sansa breathed with mock urgency. "I must be going then, your Grace. We will meet in a little while?"

"Please, don't keep your mother waiting on my account," Myrcella chuckled. "Good day, Lady Sansa, Lord Robb."

"Good day, your Grace," echoed the two Stark siblings, hurriedly exiting the room. It was not long before the two of them reached Robb's bedroom, sighing with relief in sync.

"I am already fed up with them,” Robb muttered, the first one to speak. “Lancel is a bit of a prat.”

“I’m not surprised,” Sansa conceded, remembering the taunts and bigoted attitude of the older Lannister cousin before Blackwater. “But he’s a fairly harmless one, and has the capacity for goodness.”

“Yes, I would agree with that,” Robb remarked, his face growing solemn as he pondered a new topic. “Tell me Sansa, when you were younger and you distanced yourself from Jon...why did you do it?” he asked.

“What?” she spluttered. She had expected questions about Princess Myrcella, not inquiries about their cousin-brother. But she set her mind to Robb’s question. She remembered how pained her mother’s face became whenever someone would even mention Jon’s name. “I suppose it was for Mother,” she answered truthfully.

“I thought as much,” sighed Robb. “You know, I never thought much about Mother’s feelings on Jon, and I do feel bad about it. I wish Father had told her the truth, but then I understand why he didn’t,” he added with a pained smile. “Of course, this doesn’t mean I will ever stop treating Jon as a brother, but still…”

“I understand,” Sansa murmured. And she did, really, to some degree, even though she could never fully think of Jon as her brother. “It’s a difficult situation, and you know, no one is really in the wrong, but it just is,” she added, trying to reassure her brother. “May I ask what prompted this line of reasoning?”

“Lancel Lannister,” Robb deadpanned, and Sansa let out the most unladylike guffaw of her life -- which is to say, still very ladylike. 

“Really?” she chuckled, wiping away tears of laughter from her eyes. “Remarkably astute,” she commented. Though if he got this idea from observing Cersei, it would make sense. _ He adores her _ , she remembered with a frown.  _ It will take quite a bit of effort to stray him from that, though his cousin will be the hardest. _

“Yes, really,” he responded, rolling his eyes. “Though he still has those ridiculous ideas about bastards and lords, of course. Now, tell me what you thought of Myrcella?” he asked, his eyes growing wider as his cheeks reddened.

“She’s quite intelligent,” Sansa replied curtly, not failing to suppress a groan at the manner of his query. “Robb, you can’t let her bewitch you. Honestly, you’re not hiding it very well.”

“That’s right, marriage must be for politics, I know, I know,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes yet again. Sansa let out another frustrated groan.  _ I’ve had to hold back from rolling my own eyes so many times today, and he just...ugh.  _ She stood up, making for the door in annoyance.

“I just hope you get a hold of yourself a bit before today,” she sighed. “You’ll need it,” she added, stepping out of the room without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said somewhere that next would be Tyrion...oops. Next is actually Myrcella now, but Tyrion is coming soon!
> 
> Also, this series of chapters (starting with the Lancel one) may seem a bit disjointed, as if they're operating on different storylines. I assure you I have a goal in mind, but this goal requires a lot of setup that we're still only partway through.


	15. Myrcella I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrcella thinks and fights for her happiness.

**MYRCELLA I:**

“What did you do today, Princess?” asked a bleary-eyed Tyrek who, after missing his morning meal, had awoken just in time for the midday concoction of heart potato and carrot stew.

“Embroidery,” she answered, stirring her meal with a decorative wooden spoon as she contemplated the events of the morning.

She was often very good at understanding people, even after just a single conversation, but it seemed as though the method would not apply to Sansa Stark. Myrcella just wasn't sure what to make of the older girl. Clearly, Sansa was a well-bred lady who enjoyed and excelled at typical feminine exploits without much effort, if her detailed embroidery and flowery speech were of any indication. But beneath that, Myrcella thought she detected a true spark of great intelligence -- a spark that had been extinguished the moment the Stark girl had revealed her flighty, romantic notions about marrying Myrcella’s cruel golden prince of a brother.

_ Pity,  _ she thought with a sigh.  _ She seems clever, but it's all wasted with her naive dreaming. _

Growing up beneath the gnarly, tangled mess that was the marriage of Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon, Myrcella had no such illusions of wedded life. Between the King’s whores and drinking and violence, the mutual loathing between him and his wife, and her mother’s affair with Uncle Jaime -- no,  _ father… _

And that wasn't even to mention Joffrey, handsome, evil Joffrey, like a book with a gilded cover but whose text was all about torture devices.

Suffice it to say, Myrcella knew all too well that appearances were often just a veneer to hide something imperfect, or even something utterly terrible.

She hadn't yet discerned which applied to Sansa Stark.

The rest of the family, Myrcella didn't believe to be such mysteries, as was confirmed by her observations from the morning meal they had all taken together. The two little boys were just that, neither of them older than her own precious, innocent younger brother. The father, Lord Stark, seemed to have no interest and even a contempt for political matters that did not concern his lands, and though Lady Stark looked to have intelligent opinions and ideas, she concealed her emotions just as well as her husband did -- which was to say, not at all. Now as for Robb Stark...he seemed to be everything Myrcella hoped he would be.

It was no small irony that the inspiration for Myrcella’s plan came from one of the very people she was trying to escape. When her departure was being considered, he had thankfully been fully in favor of it, letting out a passing comment about how she could try her luck “charming the heir to his knees.” The remark had incited a wave of laughter from those who had heard it -- her mother not among them, as she was in a heated discussion with her grandfather -- but Myrcella had barely let out a chuckle, her mind brewing.  _ This could be my way out _ , she had thought, her heart racing at the notion.  _ If the Stark heir is kind and good, and I can make him like me… _

And so far, it seemed her plan was coming true almost perfectly. From what she had seen of Robb Stark, he was honest and responsible, courteous and comely and charming. She noted how he cared about his siblings, how he revered his parents, how he japed with his bastard brother and his father’s ward. All in all, when she looked at the Starks, Myrcella had concluded that this was what a real family ought to be. What’s more, the North was far, far away from King’s Landing, and thus removed from its artifice and intrigue just as the Starks themselves were as a whole. Here, Myrcella could almost live a life of peace.

Almost.

There was, again, that small matter of her red-haired potential sister-in-law…

“You spent the morning with Lady Sansa?” gasped the boy across from her. “Oh, your Grace, I envy you so! What was she like?” exclaimed Tyrek, his eyes shining with excitement. Myrcella let out a decidedly unladylike snort. It seemed her cousin was not even attempting to hide his adoration of the very object of her contemplation.

“Very ladylike, and very smart,” she chuckled. “And very pretty, of course,” she quipped. “She’s going to be showing us around the glass gardens today, if you’d like that.”

“Of course I would! But Princess, she’s not pretty, she’s beautiful...have you ever seen such a lovely combination of red hair and blue eyes?” he gushed.  _ I have _ ,   _ for her older brother is no less comely _ , she thought, nearly blushing. 

_ No, Myrcella _ , she told herself with a frown.  _ Get a hold of yourself. You can’t get sentimental _ , she thought. It wouldn’t do to let affection grow for the boy she had her sights on...not yet, not until everything was certain. And even then, she would of course never, ever let herself fall in love or anything like that. Because that would be dangerous, like Mother loving Uncle Jaime. 

“...and can’t you just imagine her with pink flowers, or a golden necklace? That would be beautiful! Do you think she would marry me, Princess?” continued on her cousin. Truth be told, it was only the silence of the question asked that drew Myrcella’s attention from her reverie. But her cousin was waiting with baited breath, so out of respect and consideration for him, she contemplated the possibility in all seriousness.

Myrcella knew that Sansa was the daughter of a Lord Paramount, and an especially beautiful and gracious daughter of an especially beloved Lord Paramount at that. It was likely she would marry an heir to another Lord Paramount, or perhaps that of a notable Northern bannerman, or even Joffrey himself -- Myrcella shuddered at the thought, for she could scarcely imagine her sadistic sibling wedding anyone, let alone a girl as beautiful and intelligent as Sansa. Tyrek was the son of a third son, and he was sixth in line to claim Casterly Rock, behind Uncle Tyrion, Great Uncle Kevan, her cousins -- Lancel, Martyn and Willem, in that order. Unless some great fortune befell Tyrek or something horrible happened to Sansa, it was highly unlikely his suit could even be considered by either party.

_ She’d be a lot happier with Tyrek, anyways _ , thought Myrcella.  _ But of course, strategic political alliances are more important than anyone’s happiness, really. _

“I think we’re all a bit young to be thinking about that,” Myrcella replied. That was blatant hypocrisy, of course, given her own thoughts about Robb Stark. She didn’t want to disillusion her cousin yet, though; someone else would do it for him soon enough. “But if you become a renowned knight or warrior or a great man in another respect, I’m sure she will consider you,” she added, trying her best to infuse realism with encouragement. 

“You’re right, Princess,” Tyrek responded with an earnest nod. “I’ll become a great man first! Oh, look, there they are,” he added, looking over Myrcella’s head. Turning her head around, she noticed the two eldest Stark siblings chatting amiably with her cousin and the bastard boy. Her eyes met Sansa’s, who alerted her companions. The three of them -- the bastard boy slinking away to talk to the Greyjoy ward, Myrcella presumed -- wandered over to Myrcella and Tyrek’s spot in the hall.

“Good day your Grace, Lord Tyrek,” curtsied Sansa, a pleasant smile on her face. “Would you be ready to explore the castle now?”

“That would be nice, Lady Sansa,” responded Myrcella in kind, rising along with her cousin. With a nod, the young party traversed the hall into the corridors of the castle, the Stark siblings leading the way.

The five of them passed through winding stone hallways, their path accentuated by Sansa’s historical commentary and Robb’s occasional personal stories. They walked by the Broken Tower, which had been untouched for over a hundred years after an unfortunate lightning strike but for the exploits of the Stark children -- it seemed as though Bran Stark was the bravest of them all, for according to Robb, he had been the only one of the siblings to successfully scale the entire rickety turret. To Myrcella’s disappointment, they were not being taken to the ancient godswood or the crypts that housed the dead Starks for hundreds of generations, though perhaps that was for the best, if the pranks that Robb and his bastard brother had played on all their younger siblings had truly frightened the wits out of young Sansa, Arya and Bran. They did, however, enter the sept instead -- a small, modest building, but not really that small when Myrcella considered that only Lady Stark and sometimes her children ever used it. 

_ Though it’s quite pretty _ , she thought, examining the tastefully embellished panels on the sides of the building.  _ But I may ask Robb to make it just a little larger, if all goes well, that is. _

Her musings were broken as the Stark siblings next led them to the final location: the glass gardens themselves. With a gasp, Myrcella marveled at the lush beauty of the plants before her -- trees of crip green apples, purple plums, walnuts. There was even a lemon tree in a small corner, though she noticed that most of the lemons had been already plucked.

“That’s our only citrus tree,” explained Sansa with a swell of pride in her voice, following the Princess’s line of sight. “My father planted it for my fifth nameday, knowing my fondness for lemoncakes.”

“Very thoughtful of him,” replied Myrcella, trying very hard to perish any wistfulness in her tone.  _ They really are a beautiful family _ , she thought, not without a sigh.  _ If all goes well… _

Drawing her attention away from the lemon tree, the Princess meandered a bit further into the garden, only to come across a bed of flowers. But these were not the vibrant red gardenias or fiery lilies of the South. Instead, Myrcella saw buds of white, of pale yellow and dark purple, but the flower that drew her the most was a vibrant blue, the color of the sky on a warm, clear day.

“Winter roses,” murmured a masculine voice just behind her, and Myrcella didn’t even have to turn to know it was Robb Stark who was speaking to her. “Would you like one?” he asked in the same low tone.

“If it please you, Lord Robb,” she responded, pointedly not looking into his eyes.  _ Get a hold of yourself, stop blushing _ , the rational part of her brain warned. She watched Robb’s back as he retreated from her a bit and deftly strode to the cluster of blue flowers, bending down and plucking one by the bottom of the stem. Turning around, he walked back to her, but now she was face to face with him and couldn’t avoid eye contact if she tried.

But --  _ wait, what? What are you doing?  _ Her breath caught in her throat as fingers slid through her hair.  _ Why, Myrcella, you stupid, why _ , her logical brain repeated, but Myrcella would not, could not listen. She was furiously blushing now, she was sure of it, and  _ seven hells, why was she like this? _

“It suits you,” he told her. “Blue and green and gold…” he trailed off. His fingers were no longer touching her hair or her new flower, but his eyes were still in a trance, much like her own.

It was a small noise that broke it, someone clearing their throat.

“We should be getting back soon,” her oldest cousin announced, sending her a meaningful look.  _ Seven hells, is everyone going to discover this...this...this tryst?  _ Yet really, what could she do about it if Robb Stark made her heart do strange things and her mind stop working reasonably? She shook her head, forcing all thoughts of him out of her mind and turned to join their party.

But then her eyes met the skeptical ones of Sansa Stark, icier than any Northern blizzard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this Myrcella! Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember just how young she is -- remember, she’s 9/10 years old here. But then again, I rationalize her wisdom and maturity with having to grow up with Cersei + Robert as parent figures and Joffrey as an older brother. Tommen doesn’t get to this level, because 1) girls just grow up faster (extra-true in Westeros), and 2) Myrcella does a good job of shielding him from a lot of things. Next up: either Tyrion or Catelyn, can’t decide which yet.


	16. Tyrion I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion checks up on Jaime and finds a tiny genius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the Myrcella/Sansa/Robb/Lancel stuff is pretty intriguing, but we can’t forget the other characters that are here in Winterfell -- I swear, I could write a novel based on just their interactions! But as I have specific goals for this story and don’t want any extra wandering and exploring (because there’s already going to be plenty)...I’m not going to do that.

**TYRION I:**

He woke up, still quite spent from the previous evening.

Up until yesterday, he had gone an entire moon without anything to please his cock, not to mention the fortnight or so of travel from Casterly Rock before his brief respite in King’s Landing prior to his journey to the capital of the North. So after having witnessed the stony stares and crackling tension between his brother and the Lord of Winterfell, Tyrion had decided to abort the situation and instead supping with the Starks, he had immediately set out to search for the nearest whorehouse. 

Needless to say, he had nearly forgotten the thrill of a good fuck and his stay in the Wintertown brothel was embarrassingly short, after which he had trudged back to the castle. Thankfully, Lady Stark had designed it so his chambers were on the first floor, perhaps out of consideration for his height -- condescending as that may feel, he had been fully grateful the night before when he had nearly collapsed on his pillows in exhaustion.

From the full light peering through the small window across his bed, Tyrion deciphered that it was already midday.  _ Jaime’s been stewing in anger for a full day _ , he thought with a chuckle.  _ At least, if yesterday’s looks with Lord Stark were anything to go by.  _ Truth be told, if Tyrion didn’t know for certain of his brother’s unwavering, sickeningly faithful love for Cersei, he’d almost think him to be of Renly Baratheon’s sort, what with all the sparks flying between him and the Warden of the North. But Tyrion had to admit, he truly was curious about Jaime’s state of mind in these circumstances, so he resolved to get dressed and find his brother.

Taking a cursory glance around the room, he was disappointed -- not surprised, for he reminded himself that he was in the home of the  _ honorable  _ Ned Stark -- with the complete lack of alcohol or any such container for it. As he left his quarters, he made a request to the servant to bring him two cups and a full pitcher of whatever wine was best. Deciding to partake after seeing his brother, Tyrion followed the instructions his servant gave him to Jaime’s chambers, which were fortunately on the same floor of the same wing.

“Looking for me, brother?” asked a familiar voice behind him, though it was more strained than Tyrion was used to. Turning around, he saw he was face to face with Jaime -- well, as face to face as a dwarf and a tall knight could really be. His older brother looked much the same as usual, so much that if Tyrion had not known him for over two decades he would not detect anything different. But Jaime’s eyebrows were a tad more furrowed than usual, his forehead wrinkles more pronounced, his gait more stiff, his hand hovering closer to his sword than usual.

“Did you sleep well?” Tyrion asked simply, casting his eyes over to the door to Jaime’s quarters. Easily taking the hint, Jaime opened the door and led them both inside, closing it carefully. It was only then that the gilded knight permitted himself a long, frustrated growl.

“Ned Stark is almost more patronizing than expected,” the older brother spat without preamble. “He kept making thinly veiled comments about my lack of  _ honour _ last night. In front of all his family and ours! The man would not know subtlety if it hit him like the oaf’s warhammer, but I suppose they don’t teach such skills in this dreaded land.”

“Now, now, brother, think of the rest of the family instead,” Tyrion clucked. “Surely they can’t be so bad as the patriarch.” And from the brief interaction he held with Lady Stark and her children, Tyrion was inclined to believe they would indeed be fairly kind to his brother. “Lady Stark was once a Tully of Riverrun, a perfect lady of the South, and her children were perfectly civil to you.”

“The oldest one hates me,” Jaime commented with a snort. “Perhaps he’s been listening to the drivel his father tells him. But I will give you that -- he was far more hospitable than I thought he would be, given the dislike.”

“And the other children? What of them?” asked Tyrion, trying to glean all the information he had missed due to his outing in Wintertown last night.

“The older daughter, that’s the red-haired one. She likes her songs and stories and embroidery...in short, she’s a little lady, the kind Cersei would loathe. I will grant you, she is the politest person in the household. The younger one acts like a little boy, perhaps even more crudely. As for the two youngest, they seem like mischievous little twits like their sister,” Jaime detailed.  _ Aha, there it is _ , thought Tyrion, noting his brother’s change to a more relaxed facial expression.

“Thank you, that’s useful knowledge,” he acknowledged in reply. “May I give you a suggestion?”

“What is it?” muttered Jaime.

“Occupy yourself with the children. It will make you less miserable,” Tyrion responded. “Look at what a good nanny you’ve been to our cousins,” he added, not missing the opportunity for a jape. Yet although it was meant mostly in jest, he couldn’t help contemplating the truth of it, for his older brother really had handled their cousins quite well on the journey, especially the annoying one. “And with that brother, I really must get back to my quarters. I have a rendezvous with an entire flagon of wine in my quarters, and I’ve really missed it terribly.”

Sure enough, when he returned to his bedchamber, there was a copper pitcher -- full, if the strong fragrance of grapes and alcohol in the room was to be trusted -- with two cups beside it. These were not particularly ornate containers, nor with any other special functions, but Tyrion could not help noticing just how brightly the metal shone, as if it were just made or perhaps polished with great effort. But neither of these options really made much sense, as the metal surface had several small scratches that indicated substantial use, and the objects in question did not seem to be especially valuable to be polished with special care. For a moment, Tyrion considered the metal was not copper at all, but as he poured some wine into a cup and took a sip -- the wine was decent enough, at least for Tyrion’s parched palate -- he tasted a metallic twinge that indeed could be none but copper.

Just then, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Tyrion murmured, eyes still fixed upon the curiously shining objects.

“I trust the wine was to your liking, m’lord?” questioned the portly, red-cheeked maidservant from earlier.

“Yes, thank you,” he replied, mind still on the strange metal. “I must ask, what material is used to make these?” he asked, gesturing to the pitcher and cups before him.

“Copper, m’lord,” she responded. “Most of our utensils are made from it.”  _ So it is copper _ , thought Tyrion.  _ Perhaps she knows why it is so blindingly bright, then. _

“I’ve never seen used copper shine so brightly in my life,” he commented. “The servants must have put great care into polishing it.” At this statement, the older woman’s face broke out into a wide smile.

“Oh no, we don’t polish copper now, we just leave our copper in a special liquid and all the dirt fades away!” she explained with some pride in her voice. 

“And where did you get this special liquid?” Tyrion asked.  _ So there is someone smart around here after all. _

“Why, the little lord thought it!” the lady replied with a chuckle. “He is always going about, making messes in the kitchens and in the gardens too, but he is a clever one!”

“The little lord?” Tyrion asked, three candidates in mind.

“Lord Bran!” she clarified.  _ Damn it, Jaime,  _ he thought with a sigh.  _ Why couldn’t you at least remember their names? It would make things so much easier… _

“Is that the oldest son?” he asked again. The servant’s smile fell just a bit at his ignorance, but she shook her head.

“The second one, m'lord” she answered. “His chambers are in the left wing on the first floor, right across from the little prince’s ones, if you want to talk to him more.”

“Thank you, I will,” he replied. “You may go.” As he watched the maidservant curtsy quickly and leave his chamber, he took a long, well-earned drink from his cup, effectively emptying it and immediately pouring himself another cupful. He drained that one as well, then after a contemplative pause, set it down.  _ Let’s find this Lord Bran _ , he decided, rising from his seat feeling quite a bit less drunk than he perhaps should have.

The maidservant’s instructions came in handy, and Tyrion was once again grateful that he did not have to climb any stairs to find the Stark boy. To his dismay, however, none of his knocks were deigned with an answer, so he concluded that the boy was not in his chambers. He was about to return to his own quarters when he heard a child’s voice coming from a door guarded by an imposing Ser Balon Swann. A voice that decidedly did  _ not  _ belong to any of his kin. Creeping closer to the door -- Ser Balon stood up straighter, but did not stop him -- Tyrion noticed it was slightly open. He peered inside to see his nephew crouching next to an auburn-haired boy of nearly the same age, both intensely concentrated on something.

“...and then you just pour a little bit of fish oil like this, and that’s it!” the boy, presumably Bran, was saying.

“So then they’ll come and I can play with them?” asked Tommen, turning around only to meet Tyrion’s eyes. “Uncle!”

“Lord Tyrion,” hastily greeted the other boy with a slight bow as the man in question came closer to them.  _ The second son _ , Tyrion realized, vaguely remembering the bright-eyed child from yesterday’s meeting. 

“Uncle, Lord Bran was just showing me how to make kittens want to come here so we can play with them.”

“Oh really? How does one do that, Lord Bran?” asked Tyrion, interest piqued.  _ Seems the Starks have quite a scientific prodigy in their midst.  _ The boy’s eyes widened, his cheeks reddening a bit from the attention.

“First, you need to find food for cats. I’ve got some cheese, because we have a lot of it, and cats like it. On top of that, you just need to pour a little bit of fish oil and spread it around. But fish oil is expensive, so not that much of it.”

_ I can believe it _ , admitted Tyrion.  _ This is definitely the boy who thought up the cleaning liquid. _

“And how do you clean copper?” he asked, looking to finally sate his curiosity.

“Oh, that’s easy. It’s just vinegar, really. If you want, you combine vinegar with water so it smells less bad and then you put all the copper stuff into a big bowl of the stuff and then you just leave it there for a long time. If you add a lot of water, it’s going to take longer though. But that’s all.”

_ Brilliant _ , thought Tyrion, fighting back a laugh or a drop of the jaw -- he was not truly sure which.  _ Absolutely brilliant, and simple. To think this genius boy has been hiding up in the North… _

“That’s very clever of you, Lord Bran,” he finally remarked. “Tell me, have you ever heard of Oldtown?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, Tyrion is difficult, as is his brother Jaime. I’ve got to admit, so far Lancel has been the most fun to write, and Myrcella the one that comes easiest. Complex adults or small children...nope. Especially when the show-versions and book-versions are so different that it confuses me sometimes (cough, Tyrion again, cough). Hope this was a believable Tyrion though. Next up is finally Catelyn.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading – thoughts? Ideas? I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
